


I will save you, even from yourself

by MadDuckBlues



Series: Watson is a Promise [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Child Abuse, Crossover, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Human Trafficking, M/M, Other, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadDuckBlues/pseuds/MadDuckBlues
Summary: >> My name is John Watson. It's not the name I was born with, but it's the one that feels right. It's the name that belongs to the person I want to be. <<John and Harry Watson have a secret that neither Holmes brother has ever figured out. When Sherlock seems to commit suicide, something feels off about it, and John sets out to investigate. Will he manage to save Sherlock Holmes? This might just turn out to be the biggest adventure of their life.Set after Series 02, following John and Sherlock on their way to break Moriarty's web.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Rating mostly refers to case details, not sexual activity between the main characters. The case they are working in this story will turn rather dark halfway in, though descriptions will stay tasteful and not go into detail. There will be human trafficking with everything that often implies. If you prefer lighter stories with lots of sex, you might want to turn around now. Darker activities starting around chapter 6, rated T till then.
> 
> Yes, my profile states clearly that I DO NOT WRITE fanfiction since I've always had too much fun building my own worlds, and this was supposed to be a read-only account. But some plot bunnies just won't let go, and after a year of boiling up again and again, this story just starting pouring out.
> 
> This story idea started with my ex girlfriend's BFF complaining that we kept disprooving half of Sherlock's deductions by finding better explanations for his observations even while he made them - shouting "bullshit" and pressing pause had almost become second nature whenever we watched. Then, we started thinking about how those alternate explanations might change the complete story, and what else he might miss... and the idea of John&Harry's crossover background was born.  
> Yeah, I'm always a big fan of background characters, and probably put in too much worldbuilding to make it fit in with canon. Would love to hear some feedback on the idea!

My name is John Watson. It’s not the name I was born with, but it’s the one that feels right. The one I carried for 26 of my 43 years, and the one that belongs to the person I want to be. For eight years, it has been Dr. John Watson, and the army awarded me the rank of Captain a while after that. But this will not be the story of either title, nor of how I came to the name that now feels like mine. This is the story of how, two years ago, I suddenly came to fear that all the secrets I’ve kept for so many years would come to light and ruin not only my life, but also my sister’s. This is the story of how I met Sherlock Holmes.

It all started some weeks after I got out of the army officially, a few months after I got shot in Afghanistan. I was barely scraping by on my army pension, fearing very much that I’d either have to move in with my sister or leave London entirely. My sister had barely talked to me after I went through with army plans, even though she’d checked in periodically to make sure I was still alive and did not need to be rescued. She knew I was back, but I had refused to meet her. She thought I was angry because I’d got shot just like she prophesied when trying to thwart my army plans, but in reality, I just didn’t want her to know how badly my PTSD had gotten, in fear of triggering her own.

Whenever it all came crashing down on me, I grabbed my walking stick and hobbled for a walk, often for hours or even whole nights at a time. It was on one of those walks that I met an old friend from university. Unlike me, Mike Stamford had been able to afford his tuition without enlisting in the army, but we had shared a similar dedication to our studies and always made great study partners. Neither of us was a man of many words, and our contact after university had been accordingly sporadic.

It was good to see him again, though I didn’t quite feel comfortable sharing much about my current troubles. He figured out the obvious problem of my living situation regardless. Though he didn’t know the real reason why living outside the city scared me so much, he knew I’d want to stay here if possible in any way, and suggested finding a house-share. In hindsight, that’s where I made the biggest mistake I could have made – and possible the simultaneously best and most dangerous mistake of my life. My half-joke that nobody could survive living with me was supposed to refer to my physical and mental health, and Mike’s counter left me utterly flabbergasted. He had heard the same thing from someone else that day, and only ten minutes later, I met the most interesting man of my life. I met Sherlock Holmes.

From the first time he laid eyes on me, he seemed to know everything about me, and it scared me. There was only a tiny fact about Harry in all of his first monologue that didn’t quite match the facts, but the amount of truths he rattled off in so short a time scared and ensnared me. I needed to figure out how much he knew about our past, and how he knew. I needed to make sure Harry was safe, and was quickly dragged into Sherlock’s ridiculous lifestyle in the process.

By the time I found out I needn’t have worried, I found myself in the middle of a serial murder investigation, running through London without the walking stick Sherlock had known from the start I didn’t need. It was addicting, and everything I needed. A little white lie when I figured out he’d actually deduced everything he knew about me and Harry helped keep him in the dark, and he mistook my relieved burst of laughter when I figured out he didn’t actually know a thing for shocked surprise. He hadn’t called her my brother because he knew she was transsexual – he’d done so because of her name and the fact she’d been married to a woman.

 Every single other deduction he made about her was ridiculously stupid, and I could have thwarted them all with exactly the kind of logic he was so fond of. It might have brought him down a few notches, too – “I usually get one or two things wrong”, indeed. Try “I usually get one or two things right”. Alcoholism? Ridiculous. Harry doesn’t drink, it would interfere with her hormone medications far too badly. Shaky hands are just as typically a symptom of PTSD, as he could have seen easily from my own hands even if he hadn’t known before. Harry’s case of it is just as bad as mine, and the scratch marks on my phone are probably from both of us equally. And sure, alcoholics have a high rate of divorce – but in almost all cases, it’s the partner who leaves, and the alcoholic who keeps crying and drinking even more because of it. No, Harry’s marriage ended when Clara found out Harry’s birth name and reacted badly, threatening to blow our cover.

Yes, I think I lied at the beginning of this story. For you to understand what is happening now, two years after that, and especially what will happen in the near future, you need to know who Harry and I were before. I need to tell you my birth name.


	2. Chapter 2

Our papers say that Harry is my sister, sixteen months younger than me. Both of those are lies. We are barely three months apart, though she is younger, and she was born as my cousin. I first met her after her parents died, when I was one and a half years old, and we were at war with each other for most of our childhood. But let me start where it all begins.

I was born as the living impersonation of all middle class stereotypes. A single child in the suburbs, born to a vastly overweight salesman and a housewife whose main fear was that anyone might think her or her family to be in any way unusual. They named me Dudley Dursley, no doubt believing the rhyme and alliteration to be cute. Nowadays, I gag at the thought. I was their perfect child, spoiled and overfed till I looked like a perfect round copy of my father, and the arrival of Harry Potter did not change a thing. My mother had always hated her sister and refused to acknowledge her existence, and she immediately transferred that hatred to Harry, who she feared would fit as badly into her perfect world as his parents had.

From that first day, I was raised to believe that Harry was a freak and an abomination, and the right thing to do was to treat him that way. My parents mistreated him while spoiling me rotten, and I was rewarded again and again for treating him like my personal punching ball. Most of the other kids at school followed suit, and I never saw anything wrong about that – after all, that was exactly what my parents had shown me to be the normal way of life. Ever since I found out just how wrong that was, I cannot help but step in whenever I even hear the word “freak”.

Things slowly started changing when we turned eleven and were bound for secondary school. Obviously, my parents would never have paid for a “freak” like Harry to go to the same prestigious school they were sending me to, but it turned out that they didn’t have to bother. Ridiculously, the reason for Harry’s “freakishness” turned out to be magic – he was a wizard, and had already been enrolled at the most prestigious school of magic in Britain at birth, all tuition paid.

Harry and I only saw each other during the summer after that. I picked up boxing as my sport at school, thinking it would be a good match for the bully I had always been. Instead, I suddenly found myself in one team with people exactly like the everyone I had ever bullied. Kids like Harry, who had always been at the bad end of all the jokes and picked up boxing to finally defend themselves. My whole worldview crumbled and keeled over, and it forced me to look at myself and what I had done.

Over time, I realized I had been on my best way to become a perfect copy of my father, and suddenly it scared me. I did not want to become an overweight idiot in the suburbs with a bitchy wife. I did not want to find my happiness in the pain of others. I did not want to choose my friends because they hated the same people and chose the same victims, anymore. From that realization on, I started changing. Suddenly, I spent much more time on schoolwork, and with some help from my teammates actually started to succeed in more than sports instead of just barely passing. Wanting not even to look like the carbon-copy of my father I had been before, I dropped down three weight-classes within a year, and finding out that one of my teammates was very much into the new me only sealed the deal. Dating him fell out of my parents’ perfect world just as much as Harry and his parents had, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to care.

In the summer when we turned sixteen, I finally reconnected with Harry. It didn’t quite happen in any of the ways either of us expected, but then again, which part of our lives actually had? Harry saved my life from something that was out to kill him, some creature from his ridiculous magic world, and the only thing my parents could do was blame him for getting me hurt. In hindsight, that was the final piece to the puzzle, the final drop causing me to break with them. Suddenly, I realized that Harry was a far better choice than my parents when choosing which family to stick with. That summer, we talked. I finally found out the exact amount of danger my cousin was in, and that there wasn’t a single thing I could do to help him, no matter how much I wanted to.

The thought scared me, and we ended up talking about other problems instead. I told him about my newfound sexuality, about having a boyfriend and still being very much interested in women regardless, and Harry admitted that he’d rather have been born as a girl. She hadn’t even told her friends at school yet, and I still wonder how, despite all that had happened between us, I suddenly became the first person she dared to tell. Maybe it was because I was so far removed from her daily life, but suddenly it all came bursting out. That the worst part of being called “the boy who lived” wasn’t everyone’s expectation to save the wizarding world, but the boy part. That she had found a new family who seemed to love her, but that they were just as full of expectations as my own. That the library at her school actually carried old tomes with spells and potions for a complete sexchange, but that her new family would probably never let her use them. She was dating their youngest daughter and wanted to marry her just like they expected, but her girlfriend was very much not into women and found even the thought of having a girlfriend disgusting. Both the girlfriend and her family expected Harry to father half a dozen children and start a perfect family.

I desperately wanted to help, but there was not a single thing I could do to ease the catalogue of problems haunting her, neither with the war nor with the personal issues. The only thing I could do was listen and be there for her whenever we could have time together without my parents noticing. We spent a lot of time together that summer, but it was the last time I saw her for more than two years.

 

I broke off all contact with my parents the day I finished school. One of my teammates offered his family’s guest room for the summer, and I took it gratefully. I desperately needed time to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, and how to afford the necessary education. Even though my grades had vastly improved, they were not enough for a scholarship, especially since my parents would have been able to support me. The people in charge of those scholarships did not much care I refused all contact.

Then, two weeks into my summer brooding, my teammate’s mother knocked on the guestroom door. “There’s a girl downstairs to see you. Dark hair, skinny, didn’t give her name.”

I hardly dared to hope, but there she was. I recognized her immediately, even though she had quite obviously gone through and already taken the potions she had told me about. The tiny, cautious smile was still the same, as well as her green eyes and the infamous scar. Nothing has ever made me feel quite as relieved as seeing her alive that day, and I couldn’t help but pull her into a tight hug. For a long time, we clung to each other like two people drowning.

“Is it over, now?”, I finally asked, and she nodded against my shoulder.

“I did what I had to do. The war’s over, the monster who killed my parents is dead, and now I’m done doing what everyone wants me to do. I’m leaving that world. I’m leaving everything. Wanna come with?”

I let go of her enough to look into her eyes and smiled.

“Of course I want to. You’re the only family I have left.”

She smiled at that.

“Thanks, D. That means a lot to me.”

“What do I call you now?”

Her smile broadened into a grin.

“I’m still Harry. Short for Harriet now in the new paperwork I’ll have to turn up, I guess. I like the name, it’s one of the few things I have left from my parents. I’ll have to change my last name, though, if I don’t want people to find me.”

I grinned at that.

“Any chance you can change my ridiculous name, too? I doubt someone will try to track you by the cousin you hated, but… I don’t really want that connection, anymore.”

 “Sure. I can probably find something equally ridiculous to replace it”, she giggled.

I groaned.

“No. Just… no. I want something completely, utterly normal. Like… John. Yeah, John’s goof. And an utterly common family name for both of us, so we stick out even less. Maybe… yeah, maybe even the same family name for both of us, I think I’d like that.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“Same family name… I like the sound of that. John and Harriet, brother and sister… maybe even twins? No… I think I like that you’re older than me, I’ll keep that part. My big brother John. I have some favors from less than legal contacts I can pull in, they should be able to work it out. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

When she picked me up three days later, she had somehow changed my complete paperwork to the name of John Watson. All the school documents, even my boxing history. Of course, as I had almost expected from her sense of humor, she’d food the loophole in our agreement and saddled me with an utterly ridiculous middle name, but I couldn’t even be mad at that. She’d sold her godfather’s magical townhouse on the outskirts of London and used the proceeds as well as most of her inheritance to afford us a smaller property more centrally in the city, far away from suburbs like the one we grew up in and from anywhere the wizarding world might look for her. Neither of us brought much from our old lives, and we settled in quickly and found a routine. I kept up my boxing to keep in shape, and she started knitting, supplying me with an endless stream of sweaters that I proudly wore and quickly figured out to have more to them than the average store-bought.

It was was my decision to join the army that cause our first big fight. I wanted to become a doctor, wanted to save people the way she had saved me in so many ways. The army would pay for my education, and it would also – though I obviously left out that part when reasoning with Harry – teach more ways to save people, and offer opportunity to use them. Unlike most recruits, I knew exactly what I was getting into. I knew Harry’s nightmares and panic attacks. I knew how often she cried because of every single person she could not save. I knew every single one of her scars, , both physical and mental, yet I still wanted to fight. I needed to finally be the one who fought and saved others, instead of always being saved myself. I needed to pay back my dues.

When I left for Afghanistan after finishing my doctorate, Harry again tried to stop me. She offered to get me out of my contract in some way or other, but I refused. I knew I had to do this, for my own sanity, and eventually, my sister relented. Soon, I found out just how different she and I were. Both of us were good in a fight and would do whatever we had to – but while she had hated every minute of her war, I lived for mine. The adrenaline of working medical support right on the front line, saving people’s lives in the middle of a fire zone, made me feel alive for the first time in my life. All the risks just helped to make me work better than ever before.

Meanwhile, Harry found the girlfriend she had always been dreaming about. They had met in the muggle world, and Clara seemed to love her for who she was instead of only seeing “the boy who lived” as Harry exes had. I got a week of home leave when they finally got married, and again Harry offered to get me out. Get me away from being shot at, without repercussions, a nice job as a surgeon back home. I refused.

Two weeks later, I got shot, and my whole life turned around once more. When Harry came to visit me after the third surgery back in England, all the rest of the life that had seemed so perfect came crushing down. After the wedding, Harry’s wife had admitted to being a witch – she had, as Harry explained, legally not been allowed to tell her seemingly unmagical spouse before the wedding. In a sudden, atypical bout of optimism, or maybe love-fueled insanity, Harry had decided to not want any secrets between them, and confessed the whole truth about who she was. Everything escalated, and only major illegal magic as well as a quick divorce only weeks after the wedding had kept the story from being sold to at least one major magical news company and spreading like a wildfire through that world. Our secret was safe, and Harry alone and disillusioned once more.

Once again, Harry had been in danger, and once again she had had to save herself. Once again, I had not been able to rescue her, just like I hadn’t been able to save half a dozen soldiers in the attack that injured me so badly. I was honorably discharged some weeks later, but refused to move back in with the sister I had let down so badly. Deeper and deeper I slipped into all those pesky PTSD symptoms, and only when I got sucked into the whirlwind life of Sherlock Holmes and had to kill to save him did I realize the truth: I did not see all my bloody failures flashing by because they scared me. I saw them because, crippled as I was, I did not have a way to save anyone else. Sherlock Holmes changed that.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes killed himself in front of me yesterday, and everything rings false about it. I saw him jump, I saw his corpse, and I heard his voice talk to me clearly in his “suicide note” of a phone call. He told me it was all a lie, every single thing we survived together, every adventure and deduction. I don’t believe it. Then man I fell in love with more and more every day for two years, though he might never have made that deduction, was not a lie. I can think of dozens of deductions, dozens of experiments he made that do not support that theory.

No, it was that phone call that was the lie. Another trick to thwart some sort of final game his arch enemy James Moriarty set to roll at the time of his own death. That’s the only thing to make sense – if Moriarty’s claims had been true, as his true name been Richard Brook, there would not have been a reason for Brook to kill himself, and I saw his corpse. All the evidence points against murder, even one committed by Sherlock Holmes at the height of his game.

There is something I am not seeing about this, and I will find out. That is the only thing that keeps me going right now. I will save Sherlock Holmes, even if it appears to already be too late. Even if I have to save him from himself. They have not left me alone for a second since the fall, but I finally found a way. One of Mycroft’s cars is driving me to Harry’s place, and I overheard that Mycroft is due to identify Sherlock’s corpse in an hour. I will figure out the truth, even if it kills me.

Harry opens the door under the watchful eye of Mycroft’s driver, who will surely report back to him. The first thing she does is pull me into a tight hug, the kind that seems to be reserved for when we first see each other after some life-changing event or other. Our lives have seen too many of those by now.

“I’m so sorry, John”, she mumbles into my neck. “Whatever I can do to help you, I’m here.”

She is the only one I have ever told about my feelings for Sherlock, the only one except him who knows how badly every life I can’t save pulls at me. And she is also the only one who might be able to help me solve this case – my first case without Sherlock, the case of Sherlock Holmes himself. But it is not safe to talk out here, not with Mycroft’s car still outside and Mycroft himself in control of all security cameras in London. Very, very subtly, without loosening the hug, I push Harry back into the doorway, and she understands. Within seconds, the door closes behind us, and she pulls back to give me a scrutinizing look. The hallway is one of very few areas of the house that are safe from observation.

“That’s not your mourning face, dear brother. What do you need?”

I manage a small smile.

“Your invisibility cloak, and an alibi for the next few hours. There’s something wrong with this, and I will find out.”

She still falls into soldier mode easier than almost everyone I’ve ever known. We are a lot alike that way, though it was such vastly different experiences that got us there.

“Right. You were here for tea all afternoon – quite obviously, as neither of us left the house. The kitchen window is open for my cats whenever I’m home during the day, any neighbor can confirm that.” Harry owns two huge Maine Coone tomcats who love climbing around on the fire escape in front of the window. I know that, so it’s obviously a description of my escape route. “You think he’s still alive?”

I shrug, even as she opens the hidden safety box in the hallway closet.

“I don’t know, but the facts I have don’t add up. Either he’s getting into troubles he really needs me for and is doing the nobly stupid thing trying to keep me safe, or there is something I need to finish solving for him after his death. Either way, I need to investigate.”

She smiles and hands me the large piece of shimmering, silvery fabric.

“Good luck, JD. I really hope you’ll find him. You need each other.”

My throat closes up at the sound of that old nickname she gave me when we first moved here together so many years ago. The one that so subtly pulls together both of my name. The one that says, “I know all of your past, and your present, and I will support your future”. I hug her to me again tightly, then I swing the cloak around me with the ease of long experience. She let me play with it every now and then during my time at university – invisibility can be a lot of fun, but it is even better for dangerous times like these.

“Thanks, Harry. You’re the best sister I could ever hope for.”

 

Harry’s house – not ours, not anymore, not since I left for Afghanistan – is located centrally enough that I make it to St. Bart’s on time easily. I know that Mycroft is just as perceptive as his younger brother, so I make a point of already hiding down in the morgue before he arrives. Sneaking in behind him would pose too great a risk at every door he passes through, even when invisible. Either Holmes brother would most definitely notice a door that pauses while swinging shut, and even more one that bounces back open afterwards. I cannot afford even the slightest bit of alarm in him.

I don’t have to wait long. Only a few minutes after I arrive, Mycroft Holmes and his ever-present assistant arrive in the wake of a morgue employee I have only seen very few times before. Sherlock preferred to deal with his friend, Dr. Molly Hooper, but she, like all of his closer acquaintances, have been given a week of paid leave starting today.

Her colleague pulls out a drawer, and I use the noise it makes as cover to sneak up on the side Mycroft will very probably not pass to look at the body. The body that most definitely is not Sherlock Holmes, though it is wearing the exact same clothes Sherlock wore at the time of his death, down to the scarf Harry knitted for me to give him as a present our first Christmas. The body looks very much like Sherlock, but there are too many small differences. A look-alike, but not good enough to fool any of his friends or family – especially not a perceptive mastermind like Mycroft Holmes.

“Do you recognize this person, Mr. Holmes?”, the doctor asks. Mycroft nods.

“Yes. This is my brother, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

And Molly Hooper, the only morgue employee to know better, is on a leave of absence until after the funeral, supposedly to give her the time to mourn her friend. I smell a conspiracy.

 

Harry, bless her heart, is preparing dinner for both of us when I return. She nods almost imperceptively when I silently climb back into the window, and shuts it behind me. I cross into the hallway through the open door and take off the cloak, putting it back into the hidden storage box. Then I cross back into the kitchen. If anyone is watching, they will see me come from another room – Harry has always been paranoid, and living with her and Sherlock has made me even worse. Harry turns around and smiles at me.

“Hey, brother dearest… did you have a good nap?”, she asks, and I grin inwardly. Harry is an expert at cover stories, I’ll always have to give her that. I nod.

“Diner’s almost ready. Go set the table, will you?”

The dining room is set up in the only room without windows, and has always been our top choice for any discussion that absolutely had to remain a secret from the rest of the world. Originally born from Harry’s post-war paranoia, it has gotten a lot of use ever since I met Mycroft Holmes, who still seems to not have figured out anything wrong with our cover identities. Just like in the hallway, here we can plan however much we want to, no matter who is watching our house.

“Did the great detective ever figure out how much you learned from him, or is he once again trying to fool you along with the rest of the world?”, Harry asks as she enters the room with a big tray of food. I return the grin.

“If he didn’t, it’s his own fault. He never quite realized how wrong he was about you, either. Nor that the scarf I gave him for Christmas has some usual properties. Though he did notice the unusual fiber blend, I’ll give him that much.”

“It took you a while to notice my recipes, too”, Harry jokes. “One of the few good things I learned in the wizarding world – the secret of the Weasley sweater.”

Special blends of animal and plant fibers, often multiple kinds, with protective spells anchored in every stitch. Harry doesn’t just design knitwear out of boredom, she knits to protect her loved ones, and those we love in turn. Sherlock’s scarf called for very special ingredients. There is a small amount of hair from both her cats spun into the alpaca-and-linen yarn, and the spell anchored to them answers to the same fibers in the small wrist cuffs both Harry and I rarely take off. The tracking spell has helped me save Sherlock’s life multiple times before, and yet he never noticed that the spell works in any direction between the three of us. It is a huge amount of trust my paranoid sister has placed in him – and he does not even know it.

“What do you need to do?”, Harry asks finally, after granting both of us a break to eat some. Not “what do you want”, no – like any good soldier, she understands that some actions are pure necessity. I think for a moment.

“I need to find him. The ridiculous idiot is probably trying to break down Moriarty’s web solo, to keep everyone else safe. He’ll kill himself for real that way. I need to support him, preferably without either his brother or Moriarty’s henchmen finding out.”

“Which would endanger him even further by blowing his cover, and drive the enemy underground”, Harry nods. “So you need my help.”

I put some meat into my mouth and start chewing, then another bite. It gives me time to think. Unlike Sherlock, who constantly complains about food slowing down his thought processes, keeping my jaw muscles busy always seems to help me concentrate. Then again, it is probably a good thing Sherlock has never picked up that habit for himself – the only thing annoying police officers at a crime scene more than Sherlock Holmes and his deductions might just be a Sherlock chewing gum while he makes deductions at a crime scene. The mental image alone has made me grin at inappropriate times on a few occasions.

After another bite, I nod.

“How much would you be willing to assist? I know you turned your back on this lifestyle, and I really don’t want to drag you back into it.”

The answer comes so quickly that I know she’s thought about it a while, possibly all throughout my afternoon investigations.

“I won’t join you in the field, but I’m willing to play home base. Provide you with an alibi for a couple of months if you give me a week or so of set-up time. Supply you with various magical equipment to make your bodyguard job easier, and with ways to check in with me in person at least weekly. I’ll even loan you my cloak until this job is done.”

I nod slowly. This is an offer I’d be a fool to refuse, more than I ever expected from her. She’s quite obviously willing to risk a lot, just to ensure I make it back home safely.

“Any ideas for an alibi? I drew blanks trying to come up with one so far, but I haven’t yet calculated in your generous offer.”

The evil grin she gives me is contagious even before she starts talking.

“The obvious reaction… John Watson, heartbroken and depressed, moves back in with his sister, only comes out to visit Sherlock’s grave every few days… I have about a week’s worth of polyjuice potion to pose as you every now and then, and I can always brew up more. It takes a month, but my stash should last that long easily.”

“Oh yes. The loyal assistant, desperately mourning his fallen idol, avoiding the public who doesn’t believe anymore, stubbornly refusing to admit they’re right… add in the rumors about us dating that kept flashing up… the perfect human tragedy. I like it.”

Harry nods.

“I have a backpack with multiple expansion and protection spells on it, based on that handbag Hermione had back when we were hiding out in the wilds hunting horcruxes for a year. We’ll have to make a list of what you need in it, obviously. Numerous port-keys for your check-ins goes on top. I want you back here at least once a week for dinner and a full report on what’s going on on both fronts. Half an emergency room worth of medical stuff, protective gear for both of you if he ever finds out the truth…”

“Survival gear and a week’s worth of food and drinks for two, just in case”, I add. “Weapons and ammunition, obviously.”

Slowly, the plan starts to form, and my heart feels both lighter and heavier with every facet we discuss. I fear for the man I love, but with Harry’s help, both he and I just might survive this.


	4. Chapter 4

Checking both Sherlock’s and Harry’s location through that wonderful tracking charm whenever either of them isn’t with me has become second nature ever since he started wearing that scarf almost constantly. I keep checking on the scarf at least hourly for days, but only a few hours before the funeral does it finally move. I really, really hope that Mycroft will not give it back to me as a keepsake at the funeral or store it with the rest of his possessions. For now, it is my only reliable way of tracking the elusive Sherlock Holmes, and it is also one of the best protections he has, even if he doesn’t know it. The way he usually wears it blocks shots to his heart and lungs at least from the front, and it is designed to keep his core body temperature at healthy levels no matter which crazy climates this adventure might lead him to.

My fear rises when we get to the cemetery and the scarf is already there. Are they burying it with him? That would throw back our plans by a whole lot, might even mean stalking Mycroft Holmes endlessly for hints to Sherlock’s location or first destination. I’m sure they are working together in some way or another, however much Sherlock usually resents to do so. But no, the scarf is still on Mycroft’s person, and he does not hand it to me when I stop to talk to him. All throughout the ceremony, I fret about the future of that precious piece of fabric, and about that of the man who used to wear it and hopefully will again soon. I know that back home, Harry is already preparing. Supposedly cleaning out my old room, she is actually brewing up large amounts of the shape-changing polyjuice potion and stocking my emergency pack with everything I or Sherlock might need. More will be added from my own personal things after we move my things from Baker Street tomorrow.

Even after the ceremony, Mycroft doesn’t attempt to talk to me or hand me anything, and I rejoice. My plan to track a dead man might just work out.

All throughout the next day, the scarf keeps moving, through stranger and stranger parts of London. Tracking and tracking again compulsively, often just minutes after I last checked, keeps my distracted throughout packing and moving. I’m sure Harry notices the way I keep touching my wrist, but she doesn’t say a word. Mrs. Hudson has ensured me that my things can stay here for a while, until I have decided whether to live here again, and that Mycroft has asked her to keep Sherlock’s things as they are, “in case any new information about his and Moriarty’s deaths comes up and the investigation needs something of Sherlock’s. If things hadn’t already been suspicious before, this would probably have triggered me to think for a while. As it is, it only strengthens my suspicions. I ask Mycroft for help with transport, even though I could probably fit the few boxes I take into a cab, just to make sure he knows I’m moving in with Harry for a while. Our alibi needs to be airtight, and more witnesses always help. The driver without a doubt reports back to him, and suddenly, I know just how to check whether my plans will work out. I make sure the driver’s listening when I say my goodbyes.

“I’m so sorry, John”, Mrs. Hudson says, and I nod. She still believes Sherlock and I were a couple all along – if only she knew how often I wished the same.

“Me, too, Mrs. Hudson. “You were right, you know – you were never our housekeeper, even though Sherlock sometimes treated you that way. You were our friend, and one of the most important people in Sherlock’s life.”

She tears up at that, and suddenly grasps me into a hug.

“Oh, John!”

I feel close to tears myself, though not for the same reason. How can I not tell this wonderful woman, who loves Sherlock Holmes like the son she never had, that I suspect he’s still alive? Lying to her feels like one of the worst and hardest things I’ve ever done, but I have no choice. And the driver is still listening.

“I’ll miss you, Mrs. Hudson, but everything here just reminds me too much of him right now. Would you… could you maybe go to his grave with me again tomorrow?”

 

The front door has hardly closed when Harry grips my shoulder and yanks me around to look at her. Her anger reminds me of Sherlock, burning bright and furious.

“You’re planning something, JD. Please tell me you’re not using an old woman’s grief for some stupid plot, as you always complained about Sherlock doing. I will not let you pick up his morals just to save him.”

I lean back against the wall and sigh.

“I thought you knew me better. I need to make sure both of you are safe if we go through with this alibi. Can you please, please go there with her for me? I’ll tell you everything afterwards, but please, just trust me this once. Play a show, prove that you can be me for a while.”

She looks at me with that scrutinizing expression again, then she nods.

“Alright. Let’s get packing. I want to make sure both of you idiots survive this.”

 

The scarf keeps moving throughout the night, and I hardly sleep because I check on it so often. I keep wanting to follow it, but I need to ensure things will go as planned back here. I need to make sure Harry, Mrs. Hudson and all our friends are safe when both Sherlock and I are gone, and that my absence will stay a secret as much as the truth about his “suicide”. I will not endanger his mission, even when I go out to save him, and I will not endanger the ones we love.

Watching Harry turn into me is a scary sight. The potion seems to turn her inside out, and the expression on her – no, my – face afterwards matches the effect. Pain and disgust show clearly, and it’s disconcerting to see it on those features without feeling it myself. When she talks, it’s my voice, but with her cadence. Our dialects are similar, but something still feels wrong about it. My vocal cords trying to produce her voice. She frowns.

“I don’t sound like you. Is this better? Hello, my name is John Watson. No. Hello, Mrs. Hudson, so good to see you.”

She pauses, and I nod.

“You’re getting close. This is weird.”

“Get used to it. If we go through with this, I’ll be you for a while.”

She sounds like me now, at least close enough to fool most people. Everything else can probably be blamed on shock and mourning. Harry pulls on one of my sweaters and my trusty old jacket, and it almost looks like a uniform, even though I know her usual creatively patterned cardigans offer exactly the same protections.

“Let’s do this”, we mutter at almost the same time, and with her body changed into mine it sounds like a weird echo. Wound up as we are, it makes us giggle almost hysterically, as Sherlock and I so often did at crime scenes from that very first case. The thought makes me sober up immediately. Too much is at risk. I pull the cloak over me and the ridiculously loaded emergency backpack. I still haven’t dared to ask what kind of spell work is layered on to make everything fits inside, but with the contents of this unassuming pack, I could probably survive three apocalypses and a nuclear war. Even some choice items I snuck out of Sherlock’s personal belongings made it in there – they might prove useful.

I follow Harry, or rather, “John Watson”, the copy, all the way to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is waiting next to an expensive-looking sports car I have never seen before.

“Hello, dear”, she greets, “shall we take my car today? Sherlock’s brother was nice enough to pick me up yesterday, and it’s so exhausting to go out there by tube…”

Harry smiles at her. The old lady is probably trying to cheer me up in her own unique way with this stunt, but the only thing I can think about is how the hell I’m supposed to hitch a ride in that thing while staying invisible. Harry does not seem to share my thoughts.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Whichever way you prefer. I’m just thankful you’re coming with me. I really couldn’t stand the thought of going out there alone, and I’m already asking so much of my sister moving in with her…”

Yes, sister dearest, I get the hint. Now please tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to solve this mess – are you deliberately challenging me to make me turn back from my plans?! Mrs. Hudson pats “his” arm.

“Of course, dear. I miss him, too, you know.”

Harry takes of my jacket and opens the car’s trunk, and I add an apology to my grumpy inner monologue. She dawdles long enough putting the jacket in that I can carefully climb inside, and suddenly I realize she’s had more than thirty years of experience in dealing with the problems that might arise while using this cloak, a few of them in the middle of a ridiculously crazy civil war. She’s subtly using every small opportunity to teach me more tricks that might be useful when every mistake could not only be my last but endanger everyone around me.

It’s dark in the trunk, and there is little more to do during the ride than keep tracking the scarf. It’s on the move again, seemingly towards the same destination we are closing in on. The bait I set out yesterday has lured someone, though I don’t yet know whether it is the one I was hoping for. Someone who arrives at the cemetery a few minutes before we do.

Harry lets me out of the trunk the same way she helped me in – by dawdling, seemingly because she fears the final destination of this trip. I let her and Mrs. Hudson go. Instead, I sneak around the edges of the cemetery, always following that strange little pull.

Sherlock Holmes is hidden well among the trees, and my heart flutters when I see him. He really is alive, and obviously far more sentimental than almost everyone but me and Mycroft suspected. High-functioning sociopath, indeed – back in his trademark clothes that make him stick out so badly when he should be hiding, the treasured gift of a scarf back around his neck when he really should have left it with the decoy, lurking in the shadows to catch one last look at the people he loves. The ridiculous idiot might just be driven by his emotions more than almost anyone else in my life, and I love him all the more for it.

Harry plays her role incredibly well, shouting and swearing at the headstone, begging Sherlock to please not be dead. I watch the emotions play across his face, more than he would ever show in front of another human being. It seems to take almost every ounce of his self-control not to answer, but when “I” and Mrs. Hudson finally walk away, he turns around and briskly walks into the opposite direction. I follow.

Minutes later, in a deserted side street, Sherlock finally stops and pulls out a phone.

“I’m ready”, he says, without even so much as a greeting. “I need transport to Amsterdam tonight.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I finally got around to typing out the next chapter, which was already written when I posted the first four. But it's twice as long as the previous ones, so enjoy - we're finally going to Amsterdam, and getting to see Sherlock investigate quite a few connections to previous cases. John is intrigued, maybe you will be, too?
> 
> Typing out the first part of chapter 6 now, then rewriting the second half of it (which is where the gruesome parts of the case start and the first few warning labels apply). If you're lucky, chapter 6 will be online within the week... but wedding prep might prevent that, so no promises.

Both Harry and I have been in Amsterdam before, back when I was still in University, and it helps us form a battle plan. I caught up with her and Mrs. Hudson at the bakery Harry’s been working at since we moved here, and I was right on time when Harry’s shapeshifting potion threatened to run out. We quickly changed clothes in the staff room, and I introduced her to Mrs. Hudson. Harry invited her to come and visit around the shop whenever she needs company. The two of them got along incredibly well, but that also meant it took us hours to get back home. We quickly decided that I will not travel with Sherlock for now. After staying up almost all of last night worrying, I need a good night’s sleep, and we know where he is going this time. I will travel to the center of Amsterdam by magical means tomorrow around noon, and track and stalk Sherlock from there.

  
We pack and plan till hours after darkness falls, and Harry instructs me in all the fine points of using portkeys. I have never used the travel method before, and am now equipped with a total of five bound to “home base” in Harry’s dining room, hidden both in my backpack and on my person, just in case. She shows me how to activate them, and explains how to take people with me that way, if I ever need to. Everyone traveling has to touch the key, and any luggage we take must be clasped to us tightly. There is no risk of losing body parts, nor of ending up at a wrong destination. Harry claims either might happen with other magical travel methods, but she warns me multiple times that there is a very real chance of leaving people or luggage behind when letting go too early. She made all of my portkeys in the shape of scarves, ropes, and loops of fabric, just in case, but the fear of making mistakes still haunts me.

  
That night, I dream of Sherlock, of running and giggling and diving for cover. Of shared smiles and quick touches in the middle of firefights.

  
When I get up, Harry has made us a full English breakfast, as she always does when she’s nervous. I hardly manage a bite. Finally, I will go back into battle, and the thought exhilarates me. This time, I have no clue what is waiting for me, and no back-up. I am the back-up, even though the “main troops” has no idea I am there.

  
I strap my backpack in tightly, then clasp Harry in one last hug.

  
“Good luck, JD. I’m expecting a check-in in a few days. Try to keep both of you alive, will you?”

  
I nod, and she drapes the cloak over me. I clutch the edge of it with one hand to make sure I won’t leave it behind when I port.

  
“I love you, Harry”, are my last words, then I activate the portkey. It feels as if a big hook grabs me right in the guts and yanks me forward, and I almost keel over when my feet suddenly hit the ground. I stumble forward a few steps to catch myself, and almost get hit by a biker who can’t see me. Quickly, I move further to the side, off the street, and try to orient myself. I recognize the street. It’s one of many similar small streets off Paulus Potter Straat. The name caused many a giggle when Harry and I came here in our youth, which is probably the only reason I remember it. It worked. I’m really right in the center of Amsterdam.

  
Checking on the scarf’s location relative to mine, I am surprised – usually, Sherlock’s work leads him to some of the worst parts of a city, and I’d expected him somewhere on the outskirts, maybe in a grubby side-street near the docks. Instead, he’s less than a mile east of me, which should still be in the “touristy” parts of town.

  
Navigating the busy walkways past multiple museums while invisible proves a challenge, but I’ve done it in London before on the very few occasions Harry let me borrow her cloak. I have to swerve from the direct beeline route towards Sherlock twice until I finally find a bridge to cross the small river that suddenly blocks my way, then it’s mostly straight on.

  
Sherlock is in Albert Cuyp market, one of the biggest street markets in the Netherlands. It’s one of the last places I’d expected to find him. What kind of operation could Moriarty possibly be hiding in such a busy part of town? Then again, hundreds of stalls and thousands of tourists each day might be the perfect cover for illegal activities that need direct interaction with other parts of the business chain on a regular basis, be it clients or suppliers. Maybe one of the stalls sells drugs or other illegal stock under the table?

  
When I finally spot Sherlock, the sight makes me grin. The way he holds his almost-too-thin body is so very familiar, even from behind, but he’s proving his talent for ridiculous camouflage once more. His curly hair, usually just as unruly as Harry’s, is sleeked back tightly, and a full black beard groomed to within an inch of its life matches it and the clothes from the height of popular fashion. I don’t speak Dutch, but compared to the stallkeeper he’s talking to, there seems to be a strong accent in Sherlock’s voice. It reminds me of Afghanistan, so probably something from Western Asia, maybe Arabic or Farsi, to match the slightly darker skin tone he’s pulling off today.

  
Since I can’t follow the conversation, I decide to inspect the stall instead. There have to be hints that caused Sherlock to stop here instead of at any neighboring ones, and it has long become my hobby to try following his deductions. Two years of living with Sherlock have given me a lot of experience as to what kind of detail he usually looks for, and eventually, I spot a small plastic sign tied to a corner post of the stall. There are eight flags on it, and at first I discarded it as one of those “these are the languages we understand” notes. But the combination of flags is wrong. There’s Canada on it, but not the US or UK, which would be a weird choice to signal “we speak English”. Austria, but not Germany. Italy, France, Turkey, Denmark, Belgium and the Netherlands. Belgium does not even have a national language, it uses the ones of three neighbours instead, which is one of the reasons so much of European politics is settled there. The sign just doesn’t make sense on a stall that seems to sell cheap watches and jewelry, but I can’t figure out what it means. Sherlock probably knew immediately, or maybe even came here looking for it.

  
The discussion between him and the shopkeeper turns more and more heated, yet somehow, Sherlock manages to make his fake accent get stronger the louder he becomes, which tells me none of the heat on his side is real. He seems to convince the stallkeeper of whatever he’s trying to achieve eventually, and the man relents. He passes Sherlock a note wrapped up with a watch. Sherlock pays far more than any of the price tags says, so probably some sort of information bought. With a nod, Sherlock dispappears into the crowd, and I have trouble following him without breaking my camouflage.

  
I finally catch up with him in a side street almost five minutes later, barely on time before he rings a doorbell at a small side entrance between two shopfronts. It seems to lead to some apartments aboce, and Sherlock gives what is probably the pass phrase of the day, written on the note the shopkeeper gave him. Luckily, there is a door catcher that keeps the door open, and by the time Sherlock pulls it shut, I have snuck past him. We’re in a staircase that looks older than the house front, and I silently swear to myself. The old wooden stairs will creak badly, threatening my cover.

  
Sherlock doesn’t hesitate before ascending, and I time every one of my steps to fall simultaneously with his. A man who looks too young to mastermind anything worthy of Sherlock Holmes’ attention waits in a doorway on the next floor. Then again, James Moriarty was not all that much older than the apparent late twenties of this man, maybe a few years younger than Sherlock’s late thirties, and he’d been heading an international criminal network for years when he died. Anything is possible.

  
The man greets Sherlock in English, and Sherlock’s West Asian accent is even stronger in his native language, probably because he’s gotten a lot more practice going undercover in Britain. More pleasantries and code words exchanged, the man finally invites Sherlock inside. This time, I barely manage to sneak inside before he closes the door again, and I accidentally brush against Sherlock’s arm in the process. He whips around, and I press against the wall as far away from him as I can. The cloak hides me from sight perfectly, but not from touch, nor any of the other senses. Sherlock frowns when he sees no one, then shakes his head.

  
“Jumpy, are we, Mr. Al Marad?”, the other man asks bemusedly, and Sherlock improvises a nervous giggle. It sounds fake in my ears, but maybe I just know Sherlock too well.

  
“I… I’m not used to these things yet”, he stutters. “I thought I heard someone.”

  
The man smiles.

  
“Don’t worry. I live and work alone, and nobody will find out you were here unless your business necessitates it.”

  
He leads Sherlock into a small office that has far too many computers in it for my liking. I remain standing in the doorway just in case, to avoid any further mishaps.

  
“Now, tell me, Mr. Al Marad. What brings you to visit me, today?”

  
Sherlock gives a perfect, nervous little smile.

  
“You came… recommended. I have a few… friends who need to be able to travel through Europe freely, and someone hinted you might be able to help.”

  
The man shakes his head.

  
“And just who was it that came up with such ridiculous claims? I am just a small IT expert, I really wouldn’t know anything about fake IDs.”

  
Sherlock shakes his head.

  
“I don’t want fake IDs. I need something that passes a police database check, something that easily makes it through airport security. My former business partner had to leave England rather quickly, and he claims you played a rather large part in helping him get out of Europe with all the appropriate secrecy. Unfortunately, the main venue he suggested I go through was shut down last year, but I would ask you for the same services you provided for them.”

  
The man’s face scrunches up in suspicion.

  
“And which alleged former business partner of mine would that be?”

  
Sherlock smiles.

  
“Janus Cars. I wish from you the same services you offered their special clients. The same quality of work you offered my former employer, Richard Brook.”

  
Suddenly, everything falls into place. The _other_ feigned death we encountered recently – there would have been red flags if a recently deceased man boarded a flight to South America, so there must have been some kind of fake documents. And Moriarty’s strangely thorough cover identity that had convinced the world. They had to have come from somewhere, and Sherlock’s investigations had finally found the provider these conspiracies needed.

  
The probable technical support behind these conspiracies leans back and studies Sherlock’s face.

  
“Let’s suppose I had heard these names before and could offer the kinds of services you seek. What kind of shenanigans would you need them for, and what sort of compensation could you… friends offer for this work and risk?”

  
Sherlock launches off into a whirlwind explanation that hints at a lucrative combination of smuggling and international terrorism, without ever stating anything truly incriminating outright. He’s far too good at this, and I tune out quickly. The self-proclaimed “IT-specialist” listens with rapt attention, apparently very much in favor of this business proposal. I look around the room and the ones I can reach without opening doors instead, but apart from this one small office, which contains nothing but computers and computer parts, this seems to be the very typical home of a young single man, so I finally go back to watching them. It seems that they come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, as Sherlock eventually hands over a memory stick and they agree on another meeting within three weeks, which apparently is the time completion of the first sample identity will need.  
Sherlock’s new “business partner” walks him to the door, and I slip out while they are exchanging pleasantries. Going down the stairs either before or directly behind Sherlock has too many ways unfortunate sounds could arouse his suspicion, so I decide to stay on this floor until he leaves. He is still wearing his tracker, and even Sherlock will hopefully not get into trouble if I leave him alone for a few minutes. Both the man who lives here and I wait for until the front door falls shut behind Sherlock. With a sigh of relief, the specialist disappears in his flat, and I slowly start towards the stairs, listening from the slightest sound from below. It would be very much like Sherlock to close the front door from the inside and hide down there somewhere, though I can feel Sherlock’s tracker move away, so my paranoia is probably unjustified this time. The stairs still creak with every step, and I’m very glad I waited. This surveillance thing might turn out rather difficult if he continues to visit places like these, and I have no clue what methods of travel he might use. Some might be virtually impossible to accompany, but I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

  
Sherlock is already getting on a tram when I get close to him, and of course I miss it. I’ll have to take the same line to ensure I reach his destination, and the next one is listed in fifteen minutes. Time enough to grab a bite. Who knows when I will get the next opportunity, knowing Sherlock’s usual whirlwind investigation habits. There’s a small fast food restaurant on the other side of the street with an open front door, and I sneak into the bathroom to take off my invisibility cloak. Being seen is always a risk, but if I only take off the cloak inside, that limits the number of witnesses.

  
The old lady behind the counter wraps up my order to go, and I sneak out as soon as she’s busy with the next customer, with the food packed in my backpack and the cloak draped securely over me, coffee in hand. The 3 line tram northward arrives mere minutes later, and I check on Sherlock’s location before every stop. A few stops before the last, I realize that there’s absolutely no chance this tram will go as far out of the city as Sherlock’s gone. I’ll have to find a bus or track him on foot. Getting out at the next stop, the tracker tells me it’s still more than two miles, though he’s already stopped moving. He must have taken a bus for that much of a lead. Of course, the bus northwest only goes twice an hour, and has only left ten minutes ago. I can probably manage a large part of the distance on foot in the time until the next one arrives.

  
The bus overtakes me a half-hour later, but I can’t bring myself to care much. I finished my early dinner while I walked, and I’m getting close to wherever Sherlock’s stopped. Finally reaching a large, cheap hostel surprises me. Is there someone or something here he’s investigating, or is he staying at this place? It seems out of character, but maybe it’s part of his cover identity. The trace leads me to an eight-bed dormitory, but Sherlock’s not in it. He’s locked the scarf in a small suitcase on one of the beds, and I can only hope he will be back soon and not go on his next adventure without it.

  
I sit down in a corner quietly and listen to the heated discussion three of his roommates are having on one of the top bunkbeds. The two girls are probably American college students, judging from their age and accents, the East Asian boy seems to be a few years later. They are grumbling about the new drug laws that prohibit the take-out sale of recreational drugs to foreigners. The legendary coffee shops now only allow the in-store consumption of the Dutch favorite drug through diffusers, and these kids are vastly disappointed. I smile. Some things never change. When Harry and I were here at their age, most of our travel group spent a lot of time with sort of thing, too, though we never felt the draw of it ourselves.

  
Around twenty minutes in, the door opens. Sherlock comes in, now looking like himself again. The beard is gone, the curly hair is wet and tousled, and he’s only wearing a towel around his waist. I should be used to the sight by now – hell, I saw him go to Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet -, but my breath still catches. I can only agree with the wolf-whistles the two girls are giving him.

  
“Djamil! You got rid of the beard!”, exclaims the blond one. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair bashfully and gives her an uncertain smile.

  
“Yeah, I… I thought I’d try something new on this trip. I love the beard, but…”

  
The accent he used all day is still there.

  
“You’re damn sexy either way!”, the girl assures him, and her friend loudly agrees.

  
Sherlock actually blushes. I have no idea how he’s doing it, but he’s playing the insecure traveler incredibly well. It makes him look ten years younger than I know him to be.

  
“We’re going out for drinks downtown tonight, wanna come?”, the brunette girl asks, gesturing at the three of them. Sherlock shakes his head.

  
“I’d love to, but… I met someone at the museum this morning. We’re going out for dinner, maybe dancing after.”

  
The girls squeal.

  
“A date! So that’s why the beard is gone! Congratulations, I hope it works out for you!”

  
Sherlock nods shyly and turns to his luggage, opening it with a key tied to his wrist. I smile at the scene. Sherlock hasn’t even considered a date with anyone in all of his life, as far as I know, and I’m reminded of all the dates he’s ruined for me over the last two years. The few women he didn’t scare away on the first evening quickly realized that I love him more than I could ever love them. It’s been obvious to anyone but him for a long time.

  
After dressing, he settles on his bed with a book, and the threesome leaves shortly after. I doze off for a while. Sherlock getting up and digging in his luggage jolts me awake and I get up as silently as I can, ready to follow him. He’s dressing to hide this time, dark muted colors and a hood, but the scarf’s still coming. He’s obviously too attached to risk it being stolen, which works out rather nicely for my plans.

  
We catch a bus, then a tram, and when I see where he’s getting off, I get a strong feeling I know where he’s going. Indeed, he’s soon ringing the IT-specialist’s doorbell. When nobody answers, Sherlock nods with a smile, and pulls out this trusted old lock-picking tools The door is open in seconds, and I use the same sneaking trick as last time to get up the stairs. The flat door is even easier to pick, pried open with a simple credit card. Sneaking in past him is easier, too, as Sherlock pauses in the hallway listening.

  
The inhabitant of the flat is snoring at his desk, half a dozen windows still open on the screen. Sherlock smirks in satisfaction – did he do something to drug the man while I was out of the room? -, then kneels down behind the man and picks up his mouse. He clicks around wildly, nodding every now and then, but I can’t see the screen from where I’m standing. The room is too small.

  
“Janus Cars, already solved that…”, he mumbles to himself, then: “boring… boring… obvious, boring… illegal arms trading, should probably stop that… boring… more going into hiding, boring… traditional terrorism, let Mycroft deal with that… boring, boring, boring… huh. Now that is interesting. All single mothers with one child, multiple nationalities…”

  
He scrolls through something slowly, probably memorizing the information he’s reading.

  
“Germany, France, Switzerland… Austria… Mhhh… interesting…”

  
He clicks around some more, but nothing else seems to catch his interest. Finally, he restores the screen to the way it was when we came in, then sneaks out of the room to inspect the rest of the flat. I press against the wall next to the front door, planning to sneak out in front of him when he opens it. Sherlock returns quickly. Like me, he seems to not have found anything interesting. Nice to know I’m getting better at this.

  
Out in the staircase, I set out to repeat my escape plan from earlier today, but this time I miscalculate. I accidentally step onto the first step further upstairs, and Sherlock whips around at the sound it makes. He listens for a moment and glances up and down the stairs frantically. I freeze. When no further sign of life comes, he closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, then heads down the stairs. I wait for a while after he leaves. This time, I know at least one place he’s going – back to the hostel and his things.

  
As the tram frequency has been decreased for the night, I catch up with him regardless. We manage the way to the hostel without any more incidents, though it takes a while. Back in his room, I watch Sherlock sit down at the small table with a laptop he grabs from someone else’s luggage. He breaks the password on third try, and it amuses me to see him treat other people’s property just like he’s always treated mine. This is Sherlock as I know him, and he’s buying a ticket for a long-distance bus from Amsterdam to Lyon, leaving tomorrow a bit after noon. I guess we’re going to France next, probably to investigate whatever is going on with those single mothers he mentioned at the IT-specialist’s place. He’s using the identity of one Jegor Sokolov, probably to hide any connection to his activities here. The game is on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where the non-con and forced prostitution warnings start to apply. Sherlock's investigation is turning dark, and it will only get worse until the end. Please feel warned and if you are easily triggered, do go and read something else.
> 
> Also, I've gone back and double-spaced the paragraphs of all chapters for easier reading. You're welcome.

I watch Djamil al Marad transform into Jegor Sokolov in a public restroom near Amsterdam Sloterdijk station the next morning. Sherlock actually deigned to have breakfast at the hostel before he checked out, probably because there won’t be enough input to really think about the case until we reach Lyon, so I managed to sneak healthy portions off the buffet when nobody was watching and he was seated at a table, and the big communal bathrooms with multiple shower stalls meant I could actually have a shower without fear of discovery. Two less things to worry about, so I can enjoy watching the transformation. The two identities have next to nothing in common. After Djamil’s beard already disappeared yesterday, the next step was a complete change of wardrobe. Compared to the height of fashion Djamil was wearing, Jegor’s choice of clothes seems almost out of this world. He’s the very image of a stuck-up aristocrat, in finery that might almost make Mycroft Holmes look plebeian. Sherlock only makes it worse by adding huge blond sideburns that make his narrow face look a lot wider, as well as a straight-haired blond wig that almost reaches his collar. The result looks like someone who belongs in the backseat of an expensive car, and the thought that he’ll soon be traveling in something as common as a long-distant bus seems utterly ridiculous. This is quite obviously not an identity for stealthy operations, but for direct interaction.

When Sherlock is done, he struts out in so ridiculously posh a manner that I wish he had Mycroft’s walking stick to complete the ensemble, as well as a servant to carry the small suitcase in his hand.

The bus station is incredibly busy, and I really hope our bus will not be quite as full, or I will be hard-pressed to find a safe hiding place. Of course, that hope is futile. There are at least thirty people all storming at the luggage compartment as soon as the driver opens it, and there is no way I will find a free seat or stand in the corridor during the ride. When all is loaded and the driver is busy checking tickets and passports, I make a spur-of-the-moment decision to crawl into the still-open luggage compartment. I find a place in one of the back corners, curling up and draping the cloak around me securely. It will be uncomfortable, but less risky, though I hate to miss the spectacle when Sherlock will undoubtably get bored during the fifteen-hour ride. Even the thought is entertaining. At least he doesn’t have my weapon with him – it’s still safely packed in the backpack I’m curling around. Maybe he’ll just sink into his mind palace? That might end up with him missing his stop instead…

Sensing the presence of Sherlock’s scarf in the suitcase next to me is incredibly comforting. It has come to mean Sherlock’s near, over the years. On instinct, I reach out to Harry instead. I can only feel location, not what’s going on or how she’s doing, but she’s at work, and I know she’s always happy when she’s baking.

The bus stops hourly on average, sometimes more, sometimes less, and each stop means securing my invisibility cloak and trying not to get crushed by the new luggage that’s being stuffed in. Sherlock’s suitcase next to me assures me that he’s still somewhere above, that I won’t accidentally lose contact despite him not wearing the scarf. It really would clash with Jegor Sokolov’s fancy clothes. Somewhere between Brussels and Saint-Quentin, I dig through my backpack for a big lunch. There is nothing in the backpack to occupy my time, as it’s far too dark for the novel I packed and switching on my flashlight seems risky and a waste of batteries, so thinking about what’s to come becomes the default thing to do.

I’m deeply relieved when finally we reach Paris and I see Sherlock’s ridiculous sideburns as he fishes for the suitcase next to me. We have almost three hours of transfer time, if I remember the information on the laptop yesterday correctly, and I desperately need a bathroom break as well as some moving around to minimalize the risk of thrombosis after being cooped up for so long. It seems Sherlock has had similar thoughts, and we hit the station bathrooms together after he locks up the suitcase in the provided lockers.

Afterwards, I hurry to follow as he struts down a street. He seems to know exactly where he’s going – he’s probably been to Paris multiple times before. I’ve never quite had the temptation, and I don’t speak a word of French. German was my language in school, and I got quite a bit of practice with that during the few months I was stationed with the NATO troops in Bergen in Germany shortly after I finished my doctorate, and then again on the few occasions we had to deal with the Bundeswehr in Afghanistan. Maybe it will give me a heads-up if this journey continues to one of the German-speaking countries next.

We reach one of the small streets full of quaint little shops that Paris is so famous for, and I’m not all that surprised to see Sherlock enter a second-hand bookshop that looks like nothing in it was printed less than a hundred years ago. The shop is far too cluttered for me to follow into, not even to mention the bell above the door. I decide to wait outside instead, enjoying the beautiful evening air. Sherlock browses the shelves for a long time, finally settling on two ancient tomes whose titles I probably wouldn’t understand even if I could read them from my position. The shopkeeper wraps them up very carefully, which makes me smile. The way Sherlock will probably treat these books – the way he treats all his books – would abhor this man.

We stroll through the side streets for a long while, until it’s finally time to find our next bus. I wish fervently I could let Sherlock know I’m walking beside him, could joke around with him the way we’ve always done so well. But it’s too risky. I’m here to guard him, and nobody must know, lest we endanger this whole mission. The bus to Lyon is even fuller than the last, even though it is a night line. I’m getting cooped up even more in the luggage compartment, but I manage to fall asleep between stops regardless. Uninterrupted sleep is a luxury wartime rarely affords, and despite all outward appearances, this journey feels very much like going to war.

We arrive in Lyon around sunrise. I watch Sherlock stretch while he waits to access his luggage, and can’t wait to do the same. When the crowds in front of the hold finally disperse, I have to hurry up to follow Sherlock.

Jegor Sokolov is quite obviously not the kind of person to stay at a hostel, and indeed Sherlock heads for a sparkling four-star hotel that is the exact opposite of his last accommodation. An employee helps to carry his suitcase up to the third floor, and when we’re finally inside a beautiful single room alone, Sherlock leans back against the door and sighs in relief. Obviously, the trip has exhausted him just as much as it did me. The first thing he does is rip off his wig. His own hair is plastered to the sides of his head – I don’t want to imagine what the airtight contraption felt like after a day and night.

Watching Sherlock strip off his costume piece by piece is a beautiful thing, but I take my eyes off before he gets to the underwear. I am not a fifteen-year-old who abuses invisibility to see his adored naked. Even someone like Sherlock, who cares so little for propriety and privacy so often, deserves some privacy. I don’t follow him into the bathroom, either, no matter how much I’d like to take a shower, too. There is just no way to achieve that without him noticing.

A server brings in a cart with selections from the breakfast buffet while Sherlock is in the shower, but when Sherlock returns, he hardly spares it a glance. The game is on, and Sherlock Holmes does not eat while he’s on a case. Instead, he lays down on the bed still wearing only a towel and falls into his typical mind-palace stance. This might take a while, so I settle into a corner and try to catch up on sleep.

 

Sherlock moving around the room finally wakes me. My watch tells me it’s already late afternoon, and I feel surprisingly well rested. Sherlock is getting dressed, this time as neither of the previous identities but as a very mediocre middle-aged man who looks like he could be Djamil al Marad’s father or uncle, and it’s just as interesting to watch as the previous transformation. Back home, Sherlock never let me see this, usually just the finished product when he came back from one of his undercover stunts. Finally, he sorts through his luggage and grabs the barest necessities, then locks up the rest in a closet. Looks like he’s finally ready to leave.

I don’t even rise before Sherlock is out of the room, for fear of doing something stupid like uncover my feet. After a very quick bathroom break – who knows when I will next have the chance – I open the door again and hurry down the steps as quickly as I can. Stairs are always faster than elevators, and I take them three at a time. It is imperative that I catch up with Sherlock, as he is again not wearing the scarf I can track. I catch up with him in the Lobby, where he’s handing over the keycard to a receptionist for safekeeping.

Again, we catch a bus, this time out of the city center. Sherlock seems to have looked up the address and route, as we have to transfer three times before we finally reach a somewhat rundown business park on the edge of the city. Yes, this is more what I expected from an investigation with Sherlock Holmes. Hunting through the seediest parts of town, saving him from getting shot at and possibly shooting back. Of course we’ve also seen the other extreme before, especially on the Irene Adler case, but this kind of case seems to always be more exciting for both of us.

Sherlock rings a doorbell on a small, unassuming side building, and the very impersonation of all security goon stereotypes, probably from somewhere in the Arabic world, answers with a grunt I translate as “what the hell do you want” even without understanding a word. Sherlock answers in what seems to be fluent Arabic, and either the familiar language or whatever Sherlock is saying seems to satisfy the door guard, as he opens the door and beckons him in.

Sherlocks passes through confidently, and I shadow after him. Another guard lurks in the hallway, nodding to Sherlock in greeting as the door closes behind us. They lead Sherlock into a lush waiting room that gives me the impression that the services offered here will probably be of the adult kind. As soon as they disappear, Sherlock sneaks out and down the hallway, and I follow. Unfortunately, the guards reappear quite quickly, before he even has a chance to open any of the doors, and they seem very much not amused by his detour. Will I be forced to break my cover and defend him this early into the journey? One of the guards and Sherlock shout at each other angrily in Arabic, and eventually, they grab Sherlock by the arms, obviously not quite believing his declarations.

They drag Sherlock up the stairs, into a room with a young Slavic woman who probably would be quite pretty under different conditions. I watch from the doorway, torn between the needs to rescue Sherlock and not blow my cover. The guard who first opened the door seems to be the more dominant of the two and says something to Sherlock in Arabic. I don’t understand the language, but his leery, malicious tone makes it obvious what he wants. Sherlock’s response is probably meant to sound just as leery and expectant to boot, but I don’t quite buy it, and neither seem the two men to. One of them gestures to the woman, then to Sherlock’s midsection, and they don’t even bother to close the door as she falls to her knees and opens his trousers. Once again I am tempted to intervene, but while Sherlocks struggles a bit against the hands still clasping at his arms, he definitely doesn’t put up even a small part of the fight I know him to be capable of. Maybe he has a plan after all – is he really willing to go this far just for a case?

I lean against the wall outside the door, not willing to watch what is unfolding inside the room. The sounds are very much enough, and they seem to be going on for a long time, though my watch tells me otherwise. Finally, it is over, and the two guards drag Sherlock out of room and down the stairs. I follow quietly. In front of the entryway, they forcefully turn him around and demand something. Sherlock nods and very slowly reaches into his coat. They watch him with obvious distrust, ready to manhandle him at any moment, but he only pulls out a big bunch of Euro bills. With a smile just as leery and malicious as the one the guard gave him earlier, he counts out what is probably the amount the two guards demand, gestures up the stairs with a few words and hands it over to the guard. Then, he counts out two more sums, gestures to each of the guards in turn and hands that money over as well. Both guards react in shock and anger, the second one actually going as far to punch him in the face. Then, they push him out the door violently and swear at him while he struts away grinning.

Did he just… I shake my head in amazement, barely managing to stifle a laugh. Yes, it seems like in a spontaneous bout of malice, he paid them just as much as the whore herself for their role in this escapade, to make it look like this was exactly what he wanted when he came to this place. That is exactly the kind of messing with people’s minds that Sherlock enjoys, and it will provide reasonable doubt towards whether he was some sort of spy, covering his ass while ruining their day by making them feel used at the same time. They keep swearing madly, and finally disappear in a back room. As soon as the door closes, I open the front door silently and hurry after Sherlock, finally catching up with him at the bus stop. He glances around almost paranoidly until the bus finally arrives, probably hearing my footsteps and fearing that one of the guards is following him.

I follow him all the way into his hotel room, watching him adopt a less haunted expression some time along the third bus ride. As soon as the door closes behind us, he falls onto the bed and punches his fist into the mattress. 

“Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!”, he mutters. Obviously, this order of events was very much not how he expected the whole thing to go. He lies on the bed staring at the ceiling for a while, obviously trying to figure out a plan of action. Finally, he gets up with a sigh and starts digging through his suitcase, pulling out a large rolled-up puzzle mat and a pile of pins. He unrolls it on the desk and pins a small map of Europe in the middle, marking various spots on it, then writes down addresses and such on pieces of paper and pins them around it. Obviously, this is to become a portable version of the case-note wall he used at Baker Street to sort various clues, and he always took a long time working on that. As soon as Sherlock takes a bathroom break – even he has to listen to at least some of his “transport’s” needs -, I pull out the portkey from my coat pocket and activate it with a few quiet words. This might be the perfect chance to visit Harry and bring her up to date as to what is happening.


	7. Chapter 7

The portkey’s tug on my intestines feels almost familiar the second time around, and I manage to catch myself far more easily now that I know what to expect. I am back in Harry’s dining room, and it almost feels like coming home. I put my coat and backpack on the table with the portkey, then leave the room in search of my sister.

I find her curled up on the couch with one of her cats, reading. Her whole face brightens when she sees me, and she drops the book mid-sentence to jump up and grasp me into a long, tight hug. I relax into it involuntarily, finally realizing just how exhausted I am now. When she finally lets me go enough to look at my face, she asks:

“How was France?”

I can’t help but smile at that. Of course she tracked my movement, how could I expect anything else from her? She’s always been looking out for me, ever since we were sixteen. Even if she never returns to the field, she still has my back.

“Weird. Completely, utterly weird, even weirder than the bus ride there, and very exhausting. And I think we might end up travelling through most of Central Europe before we solve even this one case.”

She laughs softly.

“You knew what you were getting into beforehand. But I am sure glad that it’s not me going on a quest like this this time. Once really was enough.”

Right, I remember. She spent most of the year she was seventeen on a somewhat similar odyssey, with two of her friends at the time, though that one mostly covered Britain.

“What do you need?”, she asks, and I think for a moment.

“Dinner, a shower and some good, hot tea. Not necessarily in that order. A change of clothes and possibly a few hours of sleep before going back into the fray. Think those are possible?”

She nods and smiles.

“I think I can manage that. I’ve already eaten, but if lasagna is okay with you, I’ll heat it up again while you’re in the bathroom, and we can have tea after that while you tell me what ‘weird’ entails.”  
“Sounds perfect. I do have the best sister in the world.”

“And don’t you forget it!” She grinss and pokes me in the ribs. “Go take a shower, France made you smell bad.”

I give her a mock salute and a grin, and her laughter follows me all the way to the bathroom.

After what might possibly be the most satisfying meal in my life, I catch her up on all that has happened, mostly sticking to the three situations with enemy contact and glossing over the rest. Harry is just as thrown as I was at the thought of how far Sherlock was willing to go at the last stop, and somehow, that gives me back some of my confidence.

“Do you think I did the right thing not to interfere in all that?”, I ask quietly when I finish, and she pauses to think about her answer for a long while.

“I think you were”, she finally says. “I probably wouldn’t have let him go that far, but that sort of overreaction on my side is exactly why you’re far better suited to this sort of job than I am. I’m too hot-headed to play bodyguard, much less stay hidden, and Sherlock’s right. The way he treated the whole thing is probably the only way to investigate all this without endangering the victims in some way. He might even have to go further than that.”

I nod and stay silent for a while. Finally, I ask:

“Do you think he can deal with that in the long run? He always acts like the great big sociopath who can do anything for a case, but… he’s so much more empathic than everyone thinks, and so tetchy about letting people touch him… I don’t want him to break on this.”

Harry considers that for a while.

“From what I know, Sherlock can take a lot of things he usually dislikes when it’s for a case. Solving that sort of crime keeps him going even through really bad experiences. And you know him better than anyone else in this world, probably. Watch him closely, and I’m sure you will be there to intervene when he’s nearing his breaking point. I know you, JD. You won’t let it get that far, you’ll step in before some case or other breaks him, and you’ll know when it’s time. That’s why you’re doing this ridiculous thing, after all.”

Her confidence in me helps immensely. I do know Sherlock, and I also know that he wouldn’t thank me for intervening too early. I have to believe we’ll all make it through this without major damage, or I’ll be a risk on this mission. We will save whoever the victims of this network are, and bring the people responsible to justice. I have to believe in that.

Slowly, I keep sipping my tea.

“Thanks, Harry. That really means a lot more than I could say.”

 

In the early hours of morning, after some hours of sleep in a real bed and some more tea, Harry reprograms the portkey I used yesterday to go back to its last location. I’m afraid of Sherlock becoming suspicious of any stumbling noise I might make while I land, but while he does glance over his shoulder for a moment, he obviously believes the sounds to come from the next room when he sees nothing. He turns back to his chart quickly.  
I stuff the piece of rope back into my pocket. Harry will turn it back into a portkey home when I next return, and I do still have a few spares. Very quietly, I walk over to the side of the desk Sherlock is hunkering over. He is still working on his chart from last night, which is now filled with dozens of papers from the notepad the hotel provides for its guests, most of them with only a few words written at the top and with lots of room for more notes once he figures out more information. There are a few strings connecting the papers with each other and the map, but those connections seem to be another thing Sherlock cannot yet guess at.

The card connected to Lyon on the map by a yellow string is one of the few that are almost full, and I try to get close enough to read it without getting too close to Sherlock, but it proves impossible. I have to wait until Sherlock finally lays down on the bed and sinks into his mind palace. I lean over the chart and study it, beginning with the Lyon card. On top is what’s probably the address from last night, followed by a few notes like “only entry: front door”, “guards suspicious now” and my favorite in word choice, though not in content: “lim P(office access) -> 0”. It is very much like Sherlock to phrase such things in mathematical formulae.

The other seven cards connected to the map with yellow strings all only bear an address on top. Eight locations in five countries, and I try to memorize at least the city names. Four of them are in parts of Europe where my German language skills might be of use, another one is in Bristol. That one is crossed out in pencil, probably because returning to England and then leaving the country once more would be too risky right now. Even more interesting is a card pinned to the right edge of the mat, without any strings connecting it to anything. It simply says: “all <50miles from wealthy city”. Interesting. Maybe the masterminds behind this thing need a bunch of rich customers at their brothels and whatever else they are running? I’ll have to wait and see.

Again I settle into a corner and wait for Sherlock to do something interesting. It takes hours, but finally he rises and slips back into his Djamil al Marad persona. The beard is back, too, and he wears the scarf when he leaves the room. That affords me enough time to both allow myself a bathroom break and grab some fruit from my backpack before I follow.

We end up at a small internet café not far from the hotel, where “Djamil” checks routes to each of the other six locations on various methods of transportation. Finally, we take a bus to the main station, where he buys a ticket for a night train to Lausanne. I thank all the stars and gods available that it won’t be a bus this time. A train might not be all that much more comfortable, but at least I won’t need to cramp up in a luggage compartment – after all, trains don’t have those anymore.

Back at the hotel, Sherlock starts packing, carefully rolling up his case-wall mat and placing it in his suitcase. I half expect him to change appearance again, but apparently he has decided that Djamil is a good guise to travel in. Switching identities as well as type of accommodation and method of travel will help to cover his trail, but even he probably does not have an endless supply of identities to burn through.

I can’t help but be excited when he finally checks out of the hotel. Another city, another country, another adventure, always on the heels of Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, Jegor Sokolov and I are leaving a similar hotel in Lausanne. The train ride was uneventful, and I even found a free seat in Sherlock’s compartment and could relax, if not sleep for most of the journey. Sherlock spent most of the day at the hotel brooding over his chart, then contemplating on which role to play this time. It was obvious even to me that the Arab guy from last time was out, as the two guards might have warned the rest of their network about him, but the Russian aristocrat wouldn’t have been my first choice either. Sherlock probably has a reason for choosing such a flashy, easily-recognized role. Maybe he just wants to finally have an excuse to put those ridiculous sideburns into storage and never wear them again?

Either way, this time we take the metro to the very last stop instead of going on an exhausting bus trek, and again reach a business park on the outskirts of town. It’s as far away from Lake Geneva and the posh areas around it as you could possibly go without leaving the city. Sokolov probably would have fit right in in those parts of the city, and belatedly, I remember that note on Sherlock’s case-chart: “<50 miles from wealthy city”. Geneva is one of the wealthiest cities in Europe, with an unusually high number of foreigners living there, and so is Lausanne itself, hosting the IOC and other huge international organizations. Sherlock is probably betting on the theory that this role might be exactly the sort of client these houses expect.

The building he finally struts towards looks to be of one family with the one in Lyon: small, unassuming, two stories and only one visible entryway. Just as difficult to break into as the last, and even with the same type of goon guarding it. This one, though, treats Sherlock with utmost respect and a lot of courtesy, very much unlike the reception he got in Lyon, so it seems that Sherlock has guessed exactly right on which role to play this time.

  
Sherlock, with an air of arrogance worthy of his brother, answers the greeting in a rapid gush of French that clashes badly with the heavy Russian accent he’s affecting, and the only word I understand by half is the very last one – some variation of “exotic”. It seems to be enough for the man, as he opens the door wider and beckons him in.

Sherlock struts through, and I shadow after him. Another guard lurks down the hallway, nodding to Sherlock in greeting as the door closes behind us.

“Exotique, oui? Nègre ou asiatique?”, the first guard asks, and Sherlock replies in another incomprehensible gush of words.

We are led up the stairs, into a long stretch of hallway, and the guard opens one of the doors. Inside the room is a woman, small and dark, and most importantly almost naked. I really don’t want Sherlock near any naked woman ever again – he really doesn’t have the best of luck with those. A naked Irene Adler led to a lot a trouble for both of us, and what happened in Lyon was not the slightest bit better. But I have no choice. I have to let him do this.

The guard barks another question, and this time, Sherlock answers with a single word for once: “Exquisite”, followed by a question I guess to be about money, as that is what he hands over a moment later. Then, he steps over the threshold, and for a moment I am tempted to stay in the hallway. Then, my sense of loyalty wins out, and I hurry past him.

As the door closes, he asks for the woman’s name first in French, then in English, but she signals incomprehension either time. This does not bode well for gathering information. From the look of her, I’d guess her to be from Northeastern Africa, somewhere around Somalia, Eritrea, or maybe Ethiopia. She has that sort of look about her rather than further south. Apparently, Sherlock has made his own deductions, for he pulls her into his arms from behind. With his face hidden in her bushy hair, he quietly speaks to her in a soft language I feel I’ve never heard before. Definitely not the Arabic I’d have expected him to try next. I know he speaks quite a few languages, but I would have guessed them to only be languages with probable application in international context, not something so uncommon.

He seems to have guessed right, though, as the woman stiffen almost imperceptively, then answers just as softly in the same language. I catch what might be the name Faduma, as that is what Sherlock repeats, but the rest is utterly foreign to me.The way Sherlock glances around the room without moving his head makes me guess that she gave him some sort of warning about cameras somewhere in all that, and whatever he answers makes her almost smile.

He sits down on the bed, resting his back against the headboard. Spreading his legs wide, he gestures for Faduma to join him, again holding her from behind. Strangely, the fact that he is still fully dressed calms me. This seems to not be headed towards another disaster like the one in Lyon. Starting with small, innocent touches, he begins to caress her, and she leans into him like a cherished lover. They keep whispering, Sherlock’s head hidden in her hair, probably to hide the fact that he understands her and answers. Slowly, the touches intensify.

I feel torn as to what to feel about the whole thing. Parts of me scream at me to turn away as I did in Lyon, that this is private, while others desperately want to keep watching. Some parts want to be deeply jealous that it’s not me Sherlock is caressing that way, others remind me that Faduma is exactly the type of woman I usually prefer. At the same time, I can’t help but remember over and over again that neither of them is quite doing this of their own free will. They are both forced to do this, even if they have very different reasons for it.

Still, I can’t help but think that if the cameras catch even half of the show that presents itself in front of me, Sherlock should really get his money back. Either he is a fantastic lover, or this woman could be earning millions in porn. Possibly both. The view of the two of them together might just be enough to drive any man insane, and I’m glad when it’s finally over. To myself I admit that part of that gladness stems from the fact I don’t want to threaten my cover with unfortunate noises, even if I’d never tell a soul about it.

Finally, Sherlock gives his companion a kiss on the cheek, then they rise from the bed. He hugs her goodbye, and she whispers a few words into his ear again. He nods briskly, then opens the door to leave.

The guards are waiting for him in the hallway. One of them makes what is probably a lewd remark judging by tone alone, and I almost regret that I don’t understand word of the answer Sherlock delivers with perfect haughtiness when it pulls shocked bursts of laughter from both of them. The guard’s answer is full of grudging appreciation, and that’s a truly rare thing. Usually, Sherlock’s remarks aren’t taken even half that way – far more likely, they tend to make people angry. I do want to know what it is he said.

I keep watching Sherlock in the metro and on the walk back from the station to our hotel, but it’s almost impossible to guess how Mr. “sociopath” feels about this whole thing. Simultaneously, I’m wondering just as much what kind of information he learned from this stunt, and how it fits in with what he learned in Amsterdam. Was all this worth it, for the sake of Sherlock’s sanity? Or was this whole escapade just as fruitless as Lyon?

When we get back to the hotel, Sherlock immediately returns to his chart, rapidly filling out not only some of the papers he has already placed on the chart, but also numerous new ones he again grabs from the hotel notepad. Many of them go around the edges of the mat, and strings in various colors follow. When he has finally completed his work and stared at it for a while, he heads for the shower, and I use the opportunity to study the chart myself. New pieces of paper with the names o various unstable countries in Asia, Africa and Eastern Europe are lined up below, with some more noteson the one titled Libya.

“Single mothers with one child” is now underlined twice, probably to mark its importance, and connected to a scrap below it with the question “Where are the children? / Find my daughter”, which is in turn connected to every location but Lyon and Lausanne. “Separated at the airport”, “no drugs”. This looks like… human trafficking? Probably with a side of forced prostitution. Maybe blackmailing the mothers into compliance with threads to their children? Either way, very much not good, and exactly the type of thing I could see James Moriarty masterminding.

I’ve only inspected about half the notes, nor figured out what the various colors of connections mean, before Sherlock returns, wearing only a bathrobe. I have to scramble out of the way to let him look over the evidence again, adding a few more notes and deductions that probably came to him in the shower. Then, he rolls the whole thing up again tightly to hide it away. He pulls out some pajama pants and his scarf instead, getting ready for bed. Soon, he is curled up beneath his sheets, hugging the scarf to his chest tightly as a child would his favorite stuffed animal.

It takes a long time for Sherlock to fall asleep, and when he finally does, it is fitfully and quite obviously with bad dreams. Any small bit of jealousy I might have felt earlier dissipates when I see him looking so vulnerable. I have never seen him like this before. He has tried to hide any emotion he feels for so long even from those closest to him, and I know the only reason I get to see him this way now is because he doesn’t know I’m here. Quite obviously, going undercover this way is taking a lot out of him, and I swear to myself that I will do anything to support and protect this man. When his dreams get especially bad, I run my hand through his hair softly, whispering soothing trivialities. He sighs softly in his sleep, burying his face into the scarf. I can’t let him do this alone, I will stay at his side. Together, we will somehow solve this, as we have done so many times before.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is easily the heaviest chapter of the whole story. This is where all the not-previously-used warnings apply. This is where our boys finally figure out just how far this case goes, and it might come close to breaking them.

Three days later, Sherlock has found the children, or at least some of them. I don’t know if he made some deduction or other, or if he continued to pick random places off his list as he did the two previous times, but we are now in Augsburg, a small city near Munich, and we have found hell. Maybe Sherlock suspected what I never even dared to consider, for he did not ask for women at the door this time. In the role of a French businessman, speaking English to my surprise, he asked for “entertainment for gentlemen with unusual tastes”, and that might just be the mildest description possible for what we have just uncovered.

There is a waiting room again, but unlike the one in Lyon, this one is not empty. There are children inside, and from the look of them, I have to revise my original theory of them merely being blackmail material for their mothers. They are just as much part of the merchandise.

The guards watch Sherlock closely, but he does not show even the slightest bit of surprise. Either he suspected this, or he is even better an actor than I thought. His eyes slowly move through the room, following first one child, then another, probably deducing things about how this place treats them. One of the older ones, a boy of maybe ten or eleven, steps up in front of him.

“Nehmen Sie mich, bitte. Ich werde alles tun, was Sie verlangen, egal was, aber lassen Sie die anderen bitte in Ruhe.“

Pick me, please. I will do anything you ask, anything, if you only leave the others alone. Suddenly, the boy reminds me of Harry in her teenage years – she always protected her friends that way, might even have used the same words in a situation like this, and she still tries to do the same for me. Sherlock feigns incomprehension, asking the guards in his French-tinted English what the boy said. When they do translate almost word for word, he smiles wickedly.

“I do like the feisty ones. They fight back more.”

He can’t possibly be thinking about going through with this, he just can’t! Was I wrong about him, were people like Sergeant Donovan right? Does he truly have so little empathy that he will use children as a means to solve a case? I want to curse at him, want to shoot the guards and get these children out – but no. No. There has to be a reason, he’s not just doing this because he’d do anything for information. What if there are children at one of the other locations? What if us rescuing these would endanger all of them once the network finds out about it? What if Sherlock finds out something here, from this boy, that will help save them all? Can I really risk that, just for this one child’s sake?

The answer is no, and it breaks my heart. Tears stream down my face as I follow them up the stairs, but I know I have to. If Sherlock and this boy can do this, I owe it to their sacrifice to at least stay and protect them in case something else happens.

As soon as the door closes behind us, Sherlock starts talking quietly, but rapidly, in Russian. The boy stares at him, then answers haltingly. Sherlock’s next words sound almost like a challenge, followed by a question, and a look of determination crosses over the boy’s face. He nods, and Sherlock grabs for his wrists, pulling him towards the bed.

A moment later, the boy is lying on his belly, and Sherlock is above him. His trousers are around his ankles, but almost nothing is visible of either of them. Sherlock’s shirttails cover his ass, and his lanky frame makes sure that almost nothing is visible of the struggling boy. It looks bad, but from the side I can see none of it is real, that it’s just make-believe for the cameras, even more that the scene between Sherlock and Faduma a few days ago. Even thinking about Sherlock going as far for a case as this is going to look on camera would break me, would make me shoot him and any other adult in this place, no matter the consequences.

The boy keeps struggling, keeps what sounds like swearing in Russian, with occasional grunted replies from Sherlock. I can’t watch this, I have to turn away. I watch the door, hoping for someone to come inside whom I can shoot, but it is futile.I can still hear them, and my mind is filling in the images no matter how hard I try to stop it. I don’t want to know how long it takes until they are finally done. It is too long, any second of this is too long. Sherlock says something quietly, and the boy screams at him, though the anger in his voice doesn’t sound sincere. Sherlock smiles, then leaves the room.

Downstairs, Sherlock pays the guards handsomely, then says in the same French accent as before:

“That was amazing. I would very much like to do this again before I go back to France.”

I want to punch him, I really do – and shoot the guards for the laughter they give him in reply.

“Please do, my good man. We will be here.”

Not for long, if I have any say in that. If there is any way I can without consequences to the children, I will shoot this man, even if it is the last thing I do.

Sherlock struts out the door and down the street confidently, and I follow. As soon as we are out of sight of the building, he glances back, and his content smile has morphed into a grimace I have never seen before on his face. Then, he starts running. I have trouble keeping up with him, trying desperately not to let the cloak blow away, but somehow I manage. In a way, this reminds me of the last time we ran like this, on our last case together in London right before he “died”. But this time, we’re not just running to escape police custody, not just trying to wash Sherlock’s name clean. This time, there are dozens of lives at stake, people who are going through hell over and over again.

Down dozens of side streets, over bridges and down more quaint little side streets along concreted brooks. I have rarely seen so much water in one city, and I might actually enjoy it under different circumstances. Not now. Now, I run, not daring to glance left or right for fear of letting Sherlock Holmes out of my sight. I fear what he might do.

We both are out of breath when we finally reach the hotel, but Sherlock doesn’t stop for a second until he’s reached his room. He rips the auburn wig and beard off his face forcefully, not even noticing the door swinging back open after it he almost smashed it in my face. His clothes are next, and he doesn’t even close the bathroom door before he steps into the shower. Almost as soon as the water starts running, Sherlock breaks down. I have never even seen him cry before, but now he is sobbing, sinking to his knees.

I don’t even hesitate before dropping my invisibility cloak and backpack. Harry said I would recognize when things are going too far and he needs me, and now, we’re definitely long past that point. I sink down beside him, not caring about my clothes getting wet, and pull him into my arms.

“Shh… I’m here, Sherlock… shh…”

He clings to me, sobbing, not even questioning my presence, and that alone tells me more about his state of mind than I would ever need. Sherlock Holmes does not switch off his glorious mind, not for anything, but now, he’s foregone all thinking. He sobs into my chest for a long time, clinging to my coat with both hands, and I pet his hand wordlessly. Finally, the racking sobs calm down, and he lets go enough to glance up at me.

“John?!”

He scrambles up, obviously panicking.

“Did Mycroft send you? Is my cover blown?”

I can’t help but smile at that, even If it’s a smile tainted with sadness.

“Mycroft still thinks that I’m holed up at my sister’s place mourning your loss and betrayal. I’m not even convinced he knows what country you’re currently in. Don’t worry Sherlock, nobody but the two of us knows either of us is here.”

I can almost see his mind starting to work again.

“How did you find me? How did you find out I’m not dead?”

His voice is full of distrust, and I can’t even blame him. This won’t be easy to explain.

“I’ve sort of been following you since Amsterdam.” Anticipating his next response, I continue: “And no, I am absolutely sure there is nobody else who managed to follow you. Nobody else has the means I used.”

His distrust only seems to grow.

“What kind of means?”

I run a hand through my hair and grimace.

“That’s sort of a long story, not really one to be shared in a shower. Maybe… maybe we can take this outside and get dressed first?”

Sherlock contemplates that for a while, then nods briskly and turns of the shower.

“Fine.”

 

Ten minutes later, we are walking along the Wertach river, which is conveniently close to the hotel. Obviously, Sherlock has taken my request for “outside” more literal than I meant it, but the fresh air will probably do both of us good. Neither of us has said a word so far, but now he breaks the silence.

“How did you find me in Amsterdam?”

I grin.

“I overheard that phone call you made to Mycroft at the cemetery. I heard you tell him you needed transport there. You made a lot of mistakes, Sherlock. It was almost easy.”

“The first of which was to underestimate you, it seems.”

I shake my head.

“Sure, maybe that was part of it. I did work with you for years and learn a few things. But it wasn’t what I was thinking. The first, the most glaring mistake, was Moriarty’s death. It just didn’t make sense, not to anyone with half a brain cell who knew the case. Even if the Yard never seems to have figured that out.”

He frowns thoughtfully.

“Half a brain cell, as you said. Do continue.”

“Honestly, Sherlock. If Richard Brook _had_ really been just an actor, what reason would he have had to shoot himself after everything came out? It was the role of his lifetime, and there probably would have been dozens of roles waiting for him. And it was suicide, even Anderson would have seen that. I saw the corpse. It would have taken you at the height of your game to fake it.”

A small smile starts to appear on his face, so I rant on.

“And honestly, why would you, if you’d just kill yourself afterwards? Even if you’d killed him in revenge for speaking the truth, there’s just no reason to cover up a murder if you can’t be prosecuted for it any more. And a fake you never could have managed the cover-up. So Moriarty had to be real, it couldn’t have all been a lie. Really, Sherlock, did you think nobody’d notice? Then I watched Mycroft identify that corpse that didn’t even look like you, when Molly Hooper was on a convenient leave of absence so she couldn’t correct the identification…”

Sherlock laughs out loud at that.

“Well done, John. I didn’t think anyone but Mycroft would catch all that. You were wrong about one thing, though.”

“And what might that be?”

“I haven’t been in contact with Mycroft at any time since my supposed suicide.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“What? Then who…”

I have missed that wicked smile, I truly have.

“Why, Molly Hooper, of course. She not only helped me fake my death, that ‘convenient leave of absence”, as you so eloquently put it, was actually used to help me prepare and get me out of the country without even Mycroft’s attention. He would have tried to stop me. But still, well done. Don’t worry, even I sometimes get a thing or two wrong. And I did not realize that they would have Mycroft identify me again after Molly already did.”

I remember him telling me exactly that, about getting one or two things wrong, back when he made those ridiculous deductions about Harry on our first day together. I can’t help but tease him.

“And sometimes, it’s far more than one or two things.”

He smiles back.

“Is that so? Do tell. What else did I miss on this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that us Watsons are just as loyal as we are stubborn, or the fact that we’d never let anyone close to us go into battle without looking out for their safety any way we can? Maybe the fact that you’re a sentimental fool whop couldn’t help but take a memento, and managed to choose the tracker I placed on you after I was almost too late to save you on our first case together, or that I swore back then to protect you better in the future?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at me.

“Mycroft checked that scarf for trackers before he gave it to Molly. I checked it again in case he had placed something. Everything else is new.”

I’m beginning to see why he gives those wicked smiles so often, because the one now creeping onto my face feels a whole lot better than it probably should. Maybe I’m not as nice a person as I always thought.

“Then it seems like you’re not the only Holmes who can miss things sometimes. It led my right to Albert Cuyp market, and helped me catch up with you again after you got away from me leaving that whorehouse in Lyon. I had trouble getting out without those pesky guards noticing.”

I really shouldn’t overdo this, because Sherlock is getting angry. Getting Sherlock angry always has dangerous consequences.

“You were inside without them noticing? How?”

“I was there when you gave that show in Lausanne, too. And I was there tonight. What did that boy tell you, Sherlock? Was it really worth what you did?”

There, I’ve done it. Now he’s really getting angry. He ignores my questions, grabbing me by the lapels of my coat and pushing me up against a tree. He’s standing close, too close, and I have to clamp doen on my instincts screaming at me to fight back. This is Sherlock, and he has every right to be angry. I’ve gone far on this journey, maybe too far.

“How did you see all that, John? How?”

I swallow harshly, desperately thinking about how much to reveal about secrets that aren’t mine to tell.

“An old family heirloom Harry let me borrow. A way of staying hidden.”

He doesn’t believe nor trust me, I can feel it.

“Please, Sherlock. If we go back to the hotel, I can show you, I promise.”

He glares at me a bit longer, but finally, he relents.

“Alright. But I expect answers, John. Real answers. I need to be sure nothing will endanger this mission. I need to make sure you won’t. Moriarty’s web needs to fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to end this with that scene under the shower, before Sherlock even says a word, but that felt like too evil a cliffhanger to leave for even a day. I needed some cheering up, some actually John-and-Sherlock interaction after something so harsh, and I figured you might, too. More of that tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock watches me put on the cloak and take it off again multiple times with utter amazement.

“This is how you managed to spy on me?”

I nod.

“Invisibility does come in handy, even if you did get suspicious every now and then.”

He slaps his forehead, realization dawning on his face.

“You brushed past me in Amsterdam! And I did hear someone following me, over and over again, footsteps that sounded familiar but couldn’t be. There was never anyone there when I checked. And those suspicious noises in my room in Lyon… you were there, weren’t you? What were you doing that time?”

I grin.

“Losing my balance and almost falling. Well spotted. I shared all of your rooms, I have to admit, even if I did try to give you privacy. But please, never travel by long-distance bus again if there is any way you can avoid it.”

He frowns.

“Why?”

Because there’s never any room to hide unnoticed up in the bus, and those luggage compartments are damn uncomfortable. Also, some of the drivers drive like maniacs – I’m still bruised all over from being thrown around crossing the Alps.”

He stares at me incredulously, and suddenly we’re both giggling madly. When we finally sober up, a look of resignation crosses his face.

“So this is it, then. This is how I finally crack. Hallucinating my only friend when the real him thinks I’m dead, inventing ridiculous, un-scientific gadgets to explain his presence. Giggling when I really should be crying about what I had to do today.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Will you tell me what he said to you? Even if I turn out just to be a symptom of your madness, it’s always helped you sort things out when you explained them to me. I was there, but I don’t speak Russian, so I didn’t understand a word.”

He frowns once more, then nods.

“Alright. I guess it can’t hurt either way.”

He wants to continue, but I raise a hand.

“One moment, please.”

I grab for the telephone, dialing the number written on it for roomservice.

“Guten Abend. Hier ist Zimmer 317. Könnten wir vielleicht eine große Kanne Tee mit zwei Tassen bekommen?... Ja, 317, genau. Danke. Einen schönen Abend Ihnen ebenfalls.“  
[Good evening. This is room 317, could we get a large pot of tea with two cups, please? Yes, 317, thank you. Good evening to you, as well.]

I turn to Sherlock and glare at him.

“You haven’t eaten in three days. Now that you know I’m here, I intend to make sure you don’t starve yourself every time you’re on a case. Especially when they go on this long.”

He actually smiles at that, and I busy myself with my backpack until the tea arrives. Out of habit, I fix cups for both of us, then pass his over together with one of the huge chocolate muffins Harry packed for me from her bakery. I don’t know the secret to the spells on my backpack, but these are still fresh after days.

“Eat. You need it.”

Sherlock nods mechanically, but doesn’t make a move to bring either muffin or tea anywhere close to his mouth. I ignore it for now and sit down on the bed next to him. He stays silent for a long while, then finally, starts speaking monotonously. I diagnose another symptom of shock out of habit, but don’t interrupt him.

“That boy is someone special, John… he reminded me so much of you. Someone who lives to protect others. They keep both mothers and children in line with threads to kill the other if anyone revolts, escape or tries to get help, but he… He’s been there for years, and found out only a few months in that his mother had been killed shortly after he arrived. He’d have had so many opportunities to escape ever since, as he didn’t have anyone to endanger anymore… but he didn’t.”

“He stayed to protect the other kids, and from what we saw today, probably somewhat successfully, too.”

Sherlock nods.

“He tries to get all the most dangerous clients away from the others, especially from the younger ones. He even taught himself to speak German from listening to the guards, just to be able to talk the clients into switching choices. It didn’t always work, but often enough to scar him badly. We need to get them out of there, all of them, but the way these houses are linked… this isn’t even the only one with kids. We’d have to hit all of them at the same time, and wherever the leaders are holed up, too. How are we supposed to that, just the two of us? I haven’t even found out where the leaders are, yet.”

Thoughtfully, I take another sip of tea.

“So we need to get that information and stage an intervention at nine, possibly more places in multiple countries at the same time. Mycroft might help, he’s feeling guilty enough about betraying you to Moriarty.”  
Sherlock stares at me incredulously, apparently surprised enough to take at least a first small step out of his shock and lethargy.

“He admitted to that? My brother actually admitted to making a mistake of that order? I suspected a connection, but… When? How?”

I smile forlornly.

"Did you think that when you took off on your own after we left Kitty Reilly’s place, I’d just go back to Baker Street and drink tea while I wait for you? It was obvious he had to be the one responsible, so I figured confronting him about it might be the only somewhat useful thing I could do. And he really seemed torn up about the whole thing, about trying to buy a confession from Moriarty by trading stories about your life. Use it to blackmail him into getting Interpol to help us or something.”

The look Sherlock gives me can only be described as one of utter adoration, and it makes my heart speed up badly.

“You, John Watson, are one marvelously devious human being.”

I smile and poke him in the arm.

“Eat your muffin, Sherlock, or you will find out just how devious I can get. We have work to do, and you won’t be of any use when you’re starving. That does slow even your thought processes, you know.”

He grumbles, but takes a bite, and seems to even enjoy it. When both of us have finished our tea and muffins, he looks at me thoughtfully.

“Any chance you have any other interesting heirlooms that might help?”

I shake my head.

“Just that cloak.” It’s not even a lie – any other magical item Harry might have, she either bought or made herself, and even if I could think of anything else useful, I wouldn’t want to betray her secrets. “But if we find out where the information we need is hidden, it might help us get it.”

“I have a good guess at that. Alexey told me about a storage room in the basement that the kids aren’t allowed in. If I go visit him again, you could sneak down and look. I’m sure he’d be glad to help.”

I shake my head.

“You’re better at that sort of search than me. I’d miss all of the most important things. Let’s switch roles for that plan.”

He violently objects.

“I’m not making you go through that! I am not letting you pose as a customer for these people, it’s too risky, they’d never believe you! You’re too honest, they’d realize how disgusting you think all that is! They hardly believed my lies!”

I smile at his outburst. Does he really think he’s fooling me into thinking it’s only the case he’s concerned about? I was right to call him a sentimental fool, even if I’m no better.

“Don’t worry, that wasn’t what I meant. I couldn’t go through with that, hell, even you almost couldn’t. But I can stage a ruckus at the front door long enough for you to sneak in wearing the cloak.”  
He stares at me in amazement.

“You’d let me use it? It will work for me?”

“Of course it will, if you practice enough beforehand to avoid risky situations. A few hours should be enough, knowing your speed of figuring things out. And I think Harry won’t rip off my head too much if I tell her why we needed you to be the one wearing it. This would be a case she’d wholeheartedly support.”

“They might still get suspicious if another English speaker comes calling so soon after me. Still too risky. How good is your German? Just enough to order tea? “

“Ich würde sagen, eigentlich ziemlich gut. War ‘ne Weile in Bergen bei Fallingbostel aufm NATO-Übungsplatz stationiert, und hatte danach auch noch öfter Gelegenheit drin zu bleiben.“  
[I’d say pretty well, actually. Was stationed at the NATO training ground in Bergen near Fallingbostel for a while, and had opportunities to stay up and using it every now and then after that.]

I manage to avoid all but the tiniest trace of accent, and the dialect I picked up while stationed in Northern Germany will probably cover that here in the south. Sherlock stares at me in amazement.

“I feel like I hardly know you. Even I never bothered to learn this ridiculous language. Then what are we waiting for? Let me practice!”

He jumps up, almost knocking his teacup off the nightstand in his eagerness. I put a hand on his arm.

“Slowly. Learn the ground rules first, then practice. There’s quite a few things you need to look out for if you don’t want people to notice you. This is not a magic ring you place on your finger, it only makes those parts invisible that it covers. Try it.”

I hand him the cloak. With a smile like a kid in a candy shop, Sherlock steps in front of the large mirror. He drapes the cloak over his shoulders and marvels at how his head seems to float in the air. Then, he flips up the hood, finally raising the hem of the cloak up a bit to see how his feet become invisible.

“This is amazing, John.”

I grin.

“You’ve already figured out one of the major sources of problems. Flip back that hood and listen to me. Be careful not to uncover any of your extremities, especially when it’s windy. The cloak reacts like any other piece of fabric, it will follow the wind. Don’t run if at all possible, or you will uncover your feet. I was really glad it was already dark and you were distracted when we ran earlier, or I might have gotten into serious trouble. Don’t open doors when someone might see them open on their own and come to investigate. Especially be careful of automatic doors, they might betray you. Don’t let the cloak catch on anything.”

Sherlock listens with rapt attention, then seems to decide it’s time for experiments. Sneaking around the room, he knocks on the window to make me jump, then tries to sneak past me to the door. I grab his arm to stop him.

“Don’t underestimate how much noise you make even sneaking, especially when there’s someone there who knows about it.”

He actually laughs out loud, and I can’t help but join in. I let his arm go and grab my backpack instead.

“Alright, let’s try this out around town, get you into some interesting situations to see how you manage. Please try to stay close to me and give me some sort of signal if there is any problem. First time always poses some difficulties. And wear your scarf, please!”

He agrees, but I’m not all that sure I can trust him. Sherlock Holmes and an invisibility cloak, that might just prove to be more than the world can take. I will probably come to rue this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes vs. The Invisibility Cloak.  
> It does sound like the title of a superhero comic we've all been waiting to read, does it not? Let's see what kind of shennanigans our beloved detective will be up to, and if John really will come to rue this decision...

Prancing around an unfamiliar town with an invisible Sherlock is more fun than I should probably be having on a case like this. Doing this on a Friday night, when all shops are closed but people are crowding public transport and most of the city center on their way to or from various forms of entertainment, offers some almost evil possibilities to challenge Sherlock’s improvisational skills. I decide to start out small. Public transport is one of the most obvious things he’ll have to face, so I start by walking down to the next tram station. The tram is filled with people, far more than when we went out late in the afternoon. There is almost no standing room left, and I try to be nice to Sherlock for now, leaving him the very corner so the only person he can fall against is me. When the tram hits a switch point, I can see Sherlock grab for a handhold. Quickly, I place my hand over his so nobody will notice the fingers that have appeared out of nowhere. I can feel him drag the cloak back over them.

It is only a few stops to what I know from our earlier trip to be the main transfer point of the star-shaped network. It is not quite as crowded as in the daylight, but there are still a lot of people here waiting for trams or friends. Grinning wildly, I wave through the crowds, one hand always on the opposite wrist to track Sherlock’s position. He’s having trouble keeping up, and I wait on the corner of a side street at the other end of the plaza.

“Very funny, John”, he snarls quietly when he finally catches up, and I laugh.

“Don’t forget I’ve been at this for more than a week non-stop. I know exactly what the traps are, and I’ll make damn sure you know, too, before I let you go into that place alone.”

He doesn’t answer, and I continue down the side street at a more leisurely pace. We reach a large street that seems to be mostly occupied by bars, each of them well-filled up with people as only few dare to sit outside in this cold weather. Not exactly Sherlock’s level of challenge, yet. Also, I need food, and Sherlock does, too.

We zig-zag through side streets mostly downhill, past large fast food restaurants and yet more bars, and Sherlock is probably wondering where we are going and what I am looking for by the time we reach another main street. This one seems to be mostly for transit, as there are still a lot of cars passing by and almost no pedestrians near.

Diagonally across the street, I spot a tiny, hole-in-the-wall shop that is exactly what I was looking for. The sign proclaims home-made falafel, and it’s so small that there’s only room for three two-seater tables and enough room for one person at a time to walk past them to the counter. The only person inside is a man my age sitting at a table with tea and a newspaper, probably the proprietor.

“See that shop over there?”, I ask and point. There is nobody near who might hear us talking, but Sherlock only gives a hum of agreement anyway. “I’ll go and buy dinner for both of us. If you manage to grab something small from the counter inconspicuously, maybe some napkins or some such, and eat what I buy for you – without taking the cloak off or breaking cover, of course, that will be part of the challenge -, I will grant you one wish or favor to be collected any time during the next week. Within reason, of course.”

That is probably the only way I can force Sherlock to east a full meal – make it part of the new skillset he’s practicing. He probably knows that’s why I’m doing this, too, but he agrees anyways. Maybe he already has a wish in mind.

I leave the door open long enough for Sherlock to pass through behind me, then greet the man with the newspaper. He’s already risen and turned towards the open door.

“Was kann ich für Sie tun?” [what can I do for you], he asks, and I study the small menu on the counter.

“Zwei Falafelwraps zum Mitnehmen, bitte. Und ein Glas Tee für die Wartezeit.” [two falafel wraps to go, please. And a glass of tea while I wait.]

“Natürlich, gern.” [gladly.]

He takes a plastic container of what’s obviously tradional, home-made falafel dough out of the fridge. I haven’t seen that in Europe before, even with all the international food London offers, and it reminds me of my favorite days in Afghanistan, patrolling market days. Two of my squad mates and I always enjoyed these simple meals that contrasted so much with what our military provided day-to-day, and we volunteered for those shifts more often than not. The tea here is good, too, hot and strong, and I relax. If there’s one thing Brits and Arabs can agree on, it is tea.

When I finally sit outside on a bench near the shop, I hold out my hand with one of the wraps in it. I can feel Sherlock take it, but not see his hand, and it disappears a moment later. He is learning from his mistakes. When I hear the tinfoil rustle, I open my own. It is even better than I expected, with homemade yoghurt sauce and fresh mint leaves in what seems to be home-baked flatbread. Just as good as in Afghanistan. I studiously ignore Sherlock to concentrate on it, then throw the wrapping paper and foil into the bin next to me. A second wad just like it sails over me to land beside it. Seconds later, a toothpick appears on my lap, and I laugh.

“Well done. Anything you want to do next?”

“Something to drink would be nice”, he says, quietly enough that even were someone near, they might not hear him. I nod and rise.

This time, we take a different one of the small side streets back up the hill, again zigzagging around until I find a small cocktail bar that looks both cluttered enough to pose a challenge and empty enough to have a few tables free. Sherlock manages to sneak in through the heavy doors, then times the scraping of his stool perfectly to echo mine. He’s getting too good at this. I lay out the menu so that he can read it with me, to see how he will communicate without the people at the next table noticing. Quickly, another toothpick appears on the menu, pointing at a mixed drink without alcohol. Of course he did take more than one of those, just to prove he can. He probably has the whole box in a pocket somewhere – good thing I tipped well.

The waitress is young and pretty, and the perfect opportunity to see how much I can mess with Sherlock. I act clueless at what she is saying, adapting an atrociously fake American accent. I’m not as good at accents as Sherlock, so I might as well use that to make Sherlock's ears hurt on purpose. She starts flirting, and I introduce myself as Hamish, just because Sherlock knows I hate my middle name.

“So, what are you in Augsburg for, Hamish?”, she asks when she brings my drink, and I improvise. Now what would make Sherlock laugh…

“Medical conference. I’m doing a presentation tomorrow morning.”

“Oh! My brother is studying medicine! What field are you in?”

Time to pay Sherlock back for making me almost blow my cover giggling in Lyon.

“Forensic entomology.”

Sherlock’s mused grunt is almost, but not quite imperceptible, but the waitress probably thinks it’s coming from the next table.

“Forensics is something with dead people, right?”, she asks, and I can imagine the scathing remarks Sherlock would love to make at that perfectly.

“Yup… and entomology is basically insect studies. We’re the people who give a timeframe on older crime scenes by studying what bugs have appeared.”

It’s a glaringly oversimplified summary of a field Sherlock is very interested in, but it takes me answering the girl’s “Ewww!” with a charming “Yup… Professor Hamish William Hudson, expert on corpse-eating creepy-crawlies, Bakerville Institute, at your service” to finally get a reaction. It’s not the groan I was going for, but the elbow in the ribs works just as well at showing Sherlock understood my provocation perfectly. The girl disappears quickly after that – obviously, an entomologist is very much not the type of man she wants to flirt with.

“You are an evil man, John Watson”, Sherlock whispers in my ear softly when she’s gone, and I grin broadly. The contents of my glass keep decreasing without me touching it, so Sherlock has obviously figured out how to use the straw. It was probably why he ordered a mixed drink, too. When the glass is empty, I decide the day has been long enough for both of us. Sherlock seems to agree, as he follows me quietly all the way back to the hotel. If I wouldn’t check on the scarf periodically, I wouldn’t even know he’s there.

When I close the door behind us and turn back to the room, I suddenly feel lips on mine. On pure instinct, I respond, but the kiss is over far too soon.

“Thank you, John”, Sherlock says quietly. “That date was exactly what I needed after today.”

I reach out and yank the hood of the cloak off his head, probably taking some of his hair with it. I don’t care. I need something to aim my incredulous glare at – I know something weird would happen if I let Sherlock borrow that thing.

“No, Sherlock. No, no, no. Not good.”  
He seems to slump down on himself, suddenly appearing much smaller and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him before.

“I’m very sorry for misdeducing your feelings”, he says stiffly. “Please excuse me.”

He tries to turn away and go into the bathroom, but I grab his shoulder and turn him back.

“No, Sherlock.”

I kiss him softly, and he frowns in confusion.

“I do love you, you idiot. That is why I came after you, as you’ve probably deduced already. But it is absolutely not okay to define something as a date when the other person involved hasn’t even the slightest idea you’re interested. Dates are what you do after that confession. Neither is it okay to kiss someone for the first time while invisible, again especially when they have no clue about your interest. At least let me look at you so I can enjoy this, alright?”

He smiles uncertainly, then drops the rest of the cloak.

“Alright. Now, may I kiss you?”

I don’t bother to hide my smile.

“I thought you were married to your work”, I tease.

His voice takes on that “why is everyone so slow” tone I know so well.

“You’ve been part of the Work for a long time now. Do keep up, John.”

“Ah. So it’s a three-way marriage now. You, me, and the Work.”

He grins widely.

“If you want to see it that way. Now, I believe I asked whether I may kiss you.”

“Please do.”

 

We end up on the bed facing each other, kissing over and over again, holding hands and looking at each other.

“Is it okay if I don’t want to go any further than this for a while? You do owe me a favor, I believe. I’d be willing to use that.”

His face is still insecure, far beyond anything just about anyone might ever associate with him. It throws me so badly I can’t stifle the urge to react sarcastically.

“No, Sherlock, I want to tie you to this bed right this instant and give you a blowjob, triggering every last bit of trauma you might have gotten from what happened to you in Lyon.”

He blinks.

“Sarcasm?”

I squeeze his hand in mine.

“Yes, you dolt. I’d never do anything to hurt you, and that won’t suddenly change just because we kissed. Besides, I’m not all that sure I could handle any kind of being intimate with you without bad memories myself, not after all I’ve had to watch this week. This will most definitely be enough for as long as you need it.”

At that, he finally smiles.

“Thank you.”

The look in his eyes already tells me that he’s not finished, and that I’ll probably want to hit him for what he says next.

“That sarcasm of yours hit surprisingly close to the truth, to be honest, even if it was the wrong order of events. I imagined something quite like what you described to keep my cover. After all, I couldn’t exactly have them see me not react after using the cover story of a wife who’d never blow me…”

I burst into giggles at the thought.

“I remember the looks on those guards’ faces when you paid them for their role in that… I almost blew my cover trying to keep in a fit of giggles… that was one of the reasons why I provoked you so much at the bar today. To warn you how hard such things can get.”

Sherlock smiles proudly.

“That was the only good moment of that episode, yes. I’ve had a great run of flabbergasting guards on this case.”

I can’t help but kiss him again.

“What was it that you said to the ones in Lausanne?”, I ask. “Their reaction was pretty entertaining, but I never managed to figure it out. French isn’t my language at all.”

He thinks for a moment.

“They tried to ridicule me for ‘not being man enough to fuck a woman right’, and I needed a quick excuse, so I said…” He adopts the same haughty expression and Russian dialect je used as Jegor Sokolov. “Just because I lost all ability for orgasm to cancer does not mean I can’t enjoy a woman’s pleasure any more. After all, they are always so thankful, when all they usually get is fools who can’t do it right.”

I groan at that.

“You are one hell of a man, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

I pull him into my arms tightly, and he snuggles up to me. Sherlock Holmes, snuggling. Just a week ago, I’d have never believed it, but now it feels just right.

“Sleep, please, Sherlock. It will help you deal. You’ll need all the strength you can get if you want to pull that investigation off tomorrow.”

I feel him nod against my chest and turn out the light. We will make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have probably seen I've filled in the total number of chapters, and deduced correctly: yes, I'm almost done writing this, and it did end up being a few chapters shorter than the 20-25 I estimated half-way through. Things just started to fall into place. But as these characters are refusing to let me go, I am already plotting a possible sequel, told from Mycroft's and Harry's perspective taking turns as I think those might be interesting to consider after what is still to happen here. Any thoughts on that, so far?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undercover madness! Meet John's new cover identity, and see what our two favorite idiots get up to...

When I awake, the sun is rising, which around this time of the year I’d guess to be maybe 7 or 7:30. The other half of the bed is empty, and for a moment I fear it was all a dream. But the desk lamp is on, and Sherlock is already hunkering over his case-chart. I sigh inwardly. Of course he didn’t sleep through the night. This is Sherlock Holmes on a case, and he would never let something as small as a nervous breakdown waste that much time. But when I climb out of bed and walk over to him, I’m surprised to find him greeting me with a smile and a kiss.

“Morning, John.”

“Morning, Sherlock. Figure out anything else yet?”

He points at the chart.

“Highlighted where they’re holding kids and where women for those places I know yet. Added some notes on the place here in Augsburg, and some of the things Alexey told me. Trying to build a battle plan for today.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

He turns to smile at me briefly, then back to his work.

“Until an hour ago. Figured you might need more after sleeping on the floor for so long.”

I wrap my arms around him from behind.

“I see the only thing I needed to do to get some consideration both for me and your transport’s demands was to kiss you”, I tease, and he chuckles darkly.

“I wouldn’t rely on that. I’ll probably fall back into old patterns soon.”

“And you wouldn’t be the Sherlock Holmes I love if you didn’t. This is a three-way marriage, after all”, I joke.

He turns in my arms.

“Say that again, please.”

“What, three-way marriage?”, I grin, and he glares at me. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He smiles.

“I love you, too, John Watson. Thank you for coming to find and rescue me, once again.”

 

I spend most of the morning reading and occasionally forcing a new cup of tea heavily spiked with cream and sugar on Sherlock. I know from experience that he’ll refuse any other type of sustenance until this rush of case is over, and he refused my offer of help as well. Going back between the case-chart and his mind palace trying to sort all the possibilities, it is after noon when he finally speaks.

“You said ruckus, John”, he says abruptly, “What did you mean?”

I put down my book. After all this time, I’m used to the strange changes in topic and apparent non-sequiturs his whirlwind mind produces, even when it picks up threads of conversation we had on a different day.

“As a distraction, you mean?”

“Obviously.”

I think about it for a moment.

“It’s the weekend. Maybe some drunk idiot who was told they sell drugs? Start to argue and get aggressive when they insist they have none? They can hardly call the police to take me away.”

He grins.

“So rather later at night, not middle of the day, that answers that question. Think you can improvise sounding drunk in German? It does have to be better that your American accent yesterday.”

I shrug.

“No need to improvise, I’ve experience enough. I _was_ here with soldiers in training, they tended to get pretty rowdy on the weekends. Might need some cover identity though, something along the lines of your disguises. Think you can help?”

He looks me up and down.

“You do look too proper to be looking for drugs on the street. We’re not exactly the same size enough to be sharing disguises, though. Might have to buy something. Possibly something ratty and garish, to underline the cluelessness.”

At “garish”, I suddenly remember something that makes me smile.

“I think I have something.”

I reach for my backpack, digging. When Sherlock sees what I finally pull from it, he stares at me incredulously.

“What is that, and why are you carrying it with you instead of shooting it? Expecting an ugly sweater contest on this trip? You’d probably win, too.”

I laugh.

“Bullet holes might actually improve it – they’d fit the pattern in a weird way. Harry packed it as a joke to cheer me up, it used to be her ex-wife’s.”

“I can see why they got divorced”, Sherlock mutters, and he might be right. Clara’s taste in clothes was unconventional enough that we really should have suspected a connection to the wizarding world even before the wedding in hindsight – most of those “purebloods” raised without contact to the normal world do have very weird ideas about fashion.

The cardigan in question was originally made for men, and it’s covered in a black and white all-over pattern of skulls and Scandinavian star motifs, with brightly colored flames around all the hems. It is also about two or three sizes too small for me, as I only notice when I pull it over my head and feel it cling like a second skin.

“You look like an aging biker whose wife made him shave and get a haircut”, Sherlock says dryly. “I’m not kissing you while you wear that.”

I shrug.

“Meh, you haven’t done so all morning, anyways. Might as well keep it on, it’s comfortable. Think you can correct the haircut to match?”

Sherlock actually laughs.

“I might be able to if you take that thing off and kiss me, first.”

 

Five hours later, I hardly recognize myself. My undercover identity looks about fifteen years older than me, with longish, unkempt gray hair and an epic moustache that makes me swear to myself to never grow one. With that dreadful cardigan, I do look like that aging biker Sherlock has claimed I reminded him of before. He’s done marvelous work, and I stare at my mirror image in wonder.

“Wow. I wish Harry could see this, she’d get a kick out of it. I love it.”

Sherlock grins proudly.

“It does make a great disguise. We could make it semi-official when we go back to Amsterdam, I do need some identities to set him on so he won’t get suspicious, and I already have enough of them myself really.”  
I think about it for a while, then shrug.

“Let me try this out before we decide on that.”

We talk through the rest of the battle plan again, and I modify Sherlock’s ideas by making him take both his scarf and my gun, just in case. Not taking my backpack feels wrong, but I do realize it would not fit the image I’m trying to portray. It’s not all that late yet, but I think both of us are too fraught with nerves to stay at the hotel any longer. It will be a new method of investigation for either of us, and we decide on another bit of practice, this time for both of us.

Shops in the city center are not yet closed, and I end up buying a dark crimson scarf that wouldn’t actually be too ridiculous if it weren’t paired with this cardigan. It picks up the red from the flame motif badly, completing the effect, and offers opportunity to practice talking like the run-down biker I pretend to be while talking to the shop-girls. Meanwhile, Sherlock creeps around the department store doing who-knows-what, and on the spur of the moment I decide to take some pictures at the old-school photo box in a corner of the store for Harry.

Eventually, we walk up to a supermarket, and I buy a can of cheap beer, a miniature bottle of vodka, and a pack of cigarettes with a lighter. I can’t fake bad hygiene, but if I want to look like a drunkard, I should smell like it, too. I duck into a back alley not far from our mark, making sure there’s nobody watching.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”, I hear Sherlock ask right next to me. “Might be dangerous.”

I laugh at that.

“You’ve known that sentence is a turn-on for me since day one. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Still, my heart is racing. This is it. I’m about to join in a part of Sherlock’s work that I’ve not really been in contact with before, having always rather been one for the direct approach.

“Stay away”, I warn. “If you catch these smells, it might blow your cover.”

I can feel Sherlock kiss me on the forehead lightly.

“Real kisses once you’re yourself again”, he promises. “Good luck.”

I grin.

“Good luck. Can’t wait for it.”

I spill most of the vodka over the atrocious cardigan, then light half a dozen cigarettes at once. I have never smoked in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. Instead, I move them around next to my clothes until they are burned up, then repeat the process twice more until the pack is empty. I hope it will be enough. As a last touch, I open the beer, spilling some of it down my front and drinking a large gulp, both for my nerves and to make my breath smell of it. The rest of the can, I will keep in hand for additional effect, to show even from afar that this man has definitely been drinking.

I don’t look around for Sherlock, nor listen for him as I stumble out of the alley and down the street. It would be pointless and a risk. I have to trust in him to do the right thing at the right moment. I make a show of looking at each house in the side road very carefully before finally walking up to the one we’re aiming at. Someone might be watching, and notice a change in my behavior. I miss the doorbell on my first attempt on purpose, then ring it. A moment later, one of the guards appears.

 

“Was wollen Sie?”, he grunts.  
[what do you want?]

I slur the words as much as I can, trying to evoke a guy who most only called “part of the inventory”, or “inventory” for short, at my go-to bar in Fallingbostel.

“Hey, Kumpel… ich hab gehört ihr habt sehr schöne Sachen zu verkaufen…”  
[Hi mate… I heard you guys have really nice things to sell]

“Uh-huh.”

He tries to slam the door in my face, but I reach out with my free hand to stop it.

“Bitte, Kumpel… Mein Sohn sagt ihr habt die besten Drogen der Stadt… Ich brauch was…”  
[please, mate. My son says you have the best drugs in the city, I need some.]

He frowns.

“Ich habe nichts mit Drogen zu tun, tut mir leid.“  
[I have nothing to do with drugs, I’m sorry.]

“Ach, bitte… Nur ein bisschen Gras… Meine Frau ist weg, einfach abgehauen…”  
[please. Just a bit of weed. My wife left, just disappeared.]

“Das sollten Sie auch tun. Abhauen. Ich kann Ihnen wirklich nicht helfen.“  
[You should do the same. Disappear. I really can’t help you.]

This is starting to become fun. I put on desperate tones, hoping they sound convincing.

“Ich will doch nur mal ein paar Stunden vergessen, dass sie weg ist… Bitte, Kumpel… Das Bier reicht einfach nicht…“  
[I just want to forget she’s gone for a few hours. Please, mate. The beer just isn’t enough.]

He’s starting to get annoyed.

„Ich habe keine Drogen! Auch sonst hat hier niemand Drogen! Lassen Sie uns in Ruhe!“  
[I don’t have drugs! Nobody here has any drugs, either! Leave us alone!]

I put my hand on his arm, and he shrugs it off violently. Then, he slams the door forcefully, almost hitting me in the face. I can only hope Sherlock has made it inside by now, and provide some more distraction from outside, hammering and shouting at the door.

“Bitte! Sagt mir wenigstens, wann ihr wieder was da habt! Oder wo ich sonst was bekommen kann. Bitte…“  
[Please! At least tell me when you’ll have something again! Or where else I can get some. Please.]

The door is ripped open again, this time by the other guard. He scowls at me.

“Hauen Sie ab. Wir haben nichts mit Drogen zu tun. Sie sind hier falsch.“  
[Get lost. We have nothing to do with drugs. You’re at the wrong place.]

“Ist ja schon gut, Kumpel. Ich geh ja schon.”  
[Alright, alright, mate. I’m leaving.]

I stagger down the street maybe fifty yards, then sit on a bench. It’s where we’ve decided to meet after, and I settle in for a long wait. Even if Sherlock finds the storage room and gains access quickly, it might be a while until he has secured the information and can safely wander outside without arousing suspicion. This is the worst part of it, not knowing what’s going on and no chance of helping if anything goes wrong. I am a man of action, and this is driving me mad. I don’t know how Harry can stand it, waiting back in London, and I resolve to bring her up to speed more often from now on. Once Sherlock returns, if he returns. I can only hope he makes it out safely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's undercover identity was brought to you courtesy of that ridiculous moustache in season 3, too many aging bikers I saw around Augsburg when I lived there around the time season 2 came out ("I used to run a bar for the Hell's Angels in Spain some decades ago", that guy still owes me money) and one of the most glorious patterns on Ravelry: https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/flaming-hot---brennheit - so yes, that cardigan actually exists, and it's so ridiculous that I've been wanting to knit one ever since the pattern appeared in my recs. Haven't found an excuse yet. 
> 
> Is the formatting of translations okay like this, or should I change something to make it more readable?


	13. Chapter 13

We stumble back into our hotel room giggling madly, as we’re so often prone to do when our adrenaline levels crash after something big. More than two hours I had to wait for Sherlock’s return, as one of the guards kept lurking in the hallway in front of the door. The wait drove both of us to the brink, but we’ve struck gold to show for it. From what little Sherlock told me so far, he’s found just about everything he needs to solve this thing, and he’s made sure to note down all of it.

“I need a shower”, I groan, and it makes Sherlock burst into another fit of giggles.

“You do smell like half a distillery burned down. Well done, out there. One point for you in the ‘flabbergasting guards’ game, but I’m still in the lead so far.”

He starts carefully peeling off my fake beard and wig, and I hold still until he’s done. Then, I take off the cardigan without bothering to unbutton it and give Sherlock a small kiss and a smile.

“We’re a great team, I’ve always known that. Want to come?”

He frowns.

“Huh?”

“To the shower. With me”, I clarify.

He hesitates, but shakes his head.

“Tempting, but I want to start sorting all this. It’s…”

I smile and kiss him again.

“I understand. Every second counts for those kids, and for their mothers. Go deal with our third, I’ll come join you when I’m done.”

 

In the wee hours of the morning, the case-chart is all sorted, and we’ve made progress on putting together a well-structured dossier with all the relevant information Mycroft might need to pass on to Interpol.

“Only one big question open now that I can’t find a good answer to”, Sherlock sighs, and I frown.

“Which one? I thought this was all sorted. What did I miss?”

Sherlock sighs again.

“Alexey. All of his family are dead, now, and I really don’t want him to go to foster care after what he’s been through. He’s special, that one, and he should have someone who understands.”

There’s only one person I know who’s been through that much at such a young age. Someone I’ve realized before is a lot like that kid, and more importantly, someone who’s complained about not having children before. Someone I vowed only last night to talk to more often, and who still doesn’t know what happened between Sherlock and me. I frown thoughtfully.

“I might know someone.”

Sherlock looks up at me in surprise.

“Who?”

I shake my head.

“Let me talk to them, first. Someone who first saw battle at eleven and managed to build themselves a life after years of fighting. Someone who might be a good example for him, one of the best people I know.”

I rise, and collect some of my things, most importantly my backpack and the cloak. I don’t quite trust Sherlock not to experiment with either, even while he’s busy with a case.

“Give me a few hours, then I’ll be back. Maybe you’ll be done with that by then.”

I point at the dossier spread out over the table, which is still a mess. Then, I bow down to kiss Sherlock longingly.

“I love you.”

He smiles and hugs me tightly, kissing me again.

“I love you, John Watson. Do be careful about your secrets, I might take an interest when this is done.”

I might have to warn Harry about that, but she’ll probably laugh it off. She believes Sherlock to be one of the good guys, and she’s right about it, too. He might be deeply curious, but he’s just as loyal as we are.

 

Just around the corner from our room, I portkey back to London and find Harry already in the kitchen making tea. It is 3:15 a.m. here, one hour earlier than in Augsburg. Everything I wanted to talk to her about is suddenly forgotten as I pick her up and whirl her around happily.

“He kissed me! He really kissed me!”

It’s very much not what I wanted to talk about, but I guess it’s been gnawing at my subconscious all day. After all, it’s been little more than twenty-four hours since that groundbreaking event, and I haven’t really had the downtime to process it.

“Good morning to you, too, JD”, Harry says dryly. “I see you haven’t slept yet. Congratulations on finally having the guts to tell him after so long.”

I smile at her so brightly I fear my head might fall off.

“Nope… well, I told him, but he started it first…”

She pours me a cuppa, then sits down at the small kitchen table.

“Sit and calm down, you’re making me dizzy acting like a giggly teenager. I got ten minutes till I gotta leave. Start at the beginning.”

“Opening shift today?”, I ask, and she nods.

“I’ve been working double shifts since Wednesday, alone, but today at least Adam’s back to take over afternoon shift. Everyone’s decided to get the flu at the same time, apparently. Counter’s similarly understaffed. So, yeah, I’ve had great distraction from worrying about you. You could help out for a few hours if you want to talk, I’d appreciate the help.”

I know they are normally working each shift with at least two or three people, so I can only imagine how stressful fourteen hours of that alone every day must have been. And I did tell Sherlock “a few hours” to talk to her, so I might as well make myself useful. He won’t miss me for a while.

We drink tea in silence, and I do not dare to speak of anything until we’re safely inside the bakery. There might always be someone watching outside, and there’s no need to alert Mycroft, just yet. We’ll be alone for some hours until the counter staff arrives, and Harry places me on muffin duty, as there’s not much I can ruin stirring together things from a list and filling dozens of paper forms. She starts by heating up the ovens, then deals with the more complicated doughs.

“Alright, now shoot”, she finally says, already arm-deep in another bat of dough.

“The case we’re on… It’s bad”, I decide to start explaining my actions. “Human trafficking, prostitution, children in situations I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Stakes escalated, and Sherlock had a nervous breakdown some thirty hours ago. I was afraid of what he might do.”

“So you broke cover.”

“Yes. I tried to stabilize him just by being there, but he was so deeply in shock… he kept thinking I was a hallucination, a sign that he’d finally cracked.”

Harry frowns.

“Uh-huh. So what did you do, John?”

Her voice has taken on a warning undertone, telling me to please dispel her sudden apprehension. Unfortunately, I can’t do that.

“I told him about the cloak. I showed him.”

She scowls.

“And you think that won’t have consequences? You think he won’t start investigating where it comes from? You’re threatening to blow our cover sky-high, John.”

Somehow, I knew she’d say that. I’ve thought some of the same things, but I shake my head anyways.

“He thinks it’s an old heirloom. He didn’t even believe me until I came up with a plan how to useit to finally break that case and save all those people. That was what we were working on all night.”

Somehow, Harry still seems to know I’m not telling her everything.

“Uh-huh. Right. And just how, pray tell, does that lead to him kissing you, and to you coming here without making him wonder where you are?”

I smile sheepishly.

“Well, I took him out that night to practice using it, and…”

Two – one – boom. Harry explodes.

“You let him _wear_ it?!”

Her voice is incredulous, begging me to please rephrase that.

“I put the tracker on him”, I hasten to defend myself, “and was right next to him the whole time, I promise. And I’ve brought it with me now, too. I had no other chance. He was the only one who knew what information we needed exactly and where to find it. I promise, I made sure everything went as safely and secretly as it could. Ask him yourself if you want, he’d never endanger me that way. You’re safe.”

“Right.” Her sarcasm is palpable.

“He kissed me while wearing it the first time”, I say softly. “I don’t think he’d have dared otherwise. We both needed that after what happened before.”

She snorts.

“Sounds about right. Two idiot boys in love, both too spineless to say a word. No wonder the whole world was making fun of you.”

I nod, then decide to finally breach the topic I came here for.

“Harry… How do you feel about children?”

She frowns at me.

“How do you mean?”

“I know you’ve always said you wanted to have some. Would you raise one that isn’t yours? Would you care?”

She puts down the dough she was working on, studying me.

“What’s this about, JD? Sherlock have a kid nobody knows about? He ask you to adopt when you both get home?”

I shake my head.

“It’s one of our main informants. Ten-year-old Russian kid, incredibly bright and clever. The human trafficking ring we’re investigating specializes on putting single mothers and their kids in different brothels, blackmailing them to comply by threatening to kill the other. But this boy, Alexey… he’s known his mother’s dead for years, but he stayed on to protect the other kids. Went through some bad shit for it, too. Sherlock’s been obsessed with finding him a good home.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

We work quietly for a while, both lost in our thoughts. Finally, Harry asks:

“Why did you think of me?”

I’ve thought a lot about how to phrase this.

“We both think he might be better off with someone who shares that protective streak, who knows what it’s like always having to save everyone. Someone who knows what it’s like to fight at that age, and won’t try to _cure_ him of his instincts. Someone who’ll let him grow up into whatever he feels he needs to become after this.”

Harry smiles softly, but sadly.

“In other words, he’s a Watson, and you want him to learn that’s a good thing.”

I nod silently.

“Alright. Get Sherlock Holmes here. I want to talk to him.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more Harry. Glad to read you like her - she and you'll have to wait until she meets Alexey, still, but today, she meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time, and that might prove interesting all on its own.

Half an hour later, I am back in Augsburg, landing in the hotel hallway invisibly. Harry and I have argued back and forth for a while, trying to figure out how much is safe to tell Sherlock. He’s good with secrets, but he’s also deeply curious, and I fear he might try to figure out more if he even learns about the portkeys. Harry suddenly doesn’t care anymore, and eventually, I relent. It’s her secrets, her choice. I knock on Sherlock’s door, and when he sees no one upon opening, he smiles.

“Welcome back, John.”

I kiss him deeply before I take off the cloak, and he laughs softly.

“I see what you mean. This is better when I can see you. More… personal. I apologize.”

I smile at him brightly.

“Glad you agree. How’s the dossier coming?”

He glances at the table, then shrugs.

“Still needs work. How’d your… investigation go?”

“Harry wants to talk to you. Pack all that, we’re going to London.”

He stares at me incredulously.

“Your sister? I’m not leaving Alexey with an alcoholic, John! I’d rather ask Mycroft. And Britain’s too risky right now. Too far to travel, too. I need to stay here, I want in on that raid.”

I roll my eyes at him.

“You still haven’t figured anything out, have you? Harry did get a kick out of those ridiculous notions you had. She’s never touched alcohol in her life. And you’ll be back here by tonight. I promise.”

He frowns.

“Impossible.”

“Just like the cloak. Go choose a cover identity, something inconspicuous. Someone I might now. I’ll pack this.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but reconsiders, and I start to gather the papers into a neat pile. Twenty minutes later, we’re all done. Sherlock’s in the guise of that Arab guy I saw in Lyon, and the papers stowed in my pack. I present Sherlock with the tea towel Harry magicked for me earlier.

“Grab this. Don’t let go, no matter what happens.”

He frowns.

“John…”

I shake my head with a wide grin.

“Listen to your imaginary lover, Sherlock. Grab it, you’ll see.”

As soon as he has a firm grip, I activate the portkey. A moment later, we’re in the store-room of the bakery, and Sherlock lands just as badly as I did on my first try. He crashes into some shelves, and a boxful of poppy seeds rains down on him.

“That… what… did we just _teleport?_!”

I can’t help but burst into giggles at the look of indignation on his face, and it’s echoed from the doorway.

“The great Sherlock Holmes, gracious as an antelope. Or what’s that animal with the tusks called again?”

Sherlock stares at her incredulously, and I reach out to pull him up.

“Sherlock, this jokester’s my sister, Harry Watson. We’re at her place of work, a small bakery in Kensington, because she’s been working far too much lately.”

He looks her up and down – the lithe form, black braid, brightly patterned cardigan covered by a dark red apron. He’s probably making dozens of deductions on the go.

“Pleasure to finally meet you. I have to say, you’re not exactly what I expected.”

“Now that’s something you don’t say often”, I mutter, and they both grin.

“Come on in. You can talk to me while I work.”

I assume bagel duty easily, having helped out at the bakery every now and then before, and when Sherlock sees Harry whirling around doing everything at once, he actually offers to help on his own accord. The door opens while she’s still showing him how to assist with preparations.

“John!” So wonderful of you to help out! And you brought a friend, too! “, Hettie exclaims, and I smile. I do like the senior owner of the bakery, who’s been mothering Harry and me ever since Harry started working here twenty-five years ago.

“Boyfriend, actually”, Sherlock interjects shoothly. “I’m Bram. Short for Ibrahim. Lovely to meet you, Mrs. …”

“Call me Hettie”, she interrupts him resolutely, then grabs for a tray of rolls Harry has prepared. “I have to go open up, but you kids come up front and grab a tea when the breakfast rush’s over, will you?”

“Ta, mom”, Harry grins. “You’re the best.”

“Mom?”, Sherlock asks when the door’s closed, and Harry smiles.

“My real parents died when I was a year old, and Hettie’s been substituting since I started working here in my late teens. She’s the best.”

“I am sorry for your loss. John did hint that you had a strange childhood. May I ask for details?”

Smooth, Sherlock, smooth. Almost as smooth as your landing here, but then again, Harry does like directness. She sighs.

“John’s parents raised me for a while. Our mothers were sisters. But… my parents were part of a pretty reclusive sect, and they made sure I’d be drawn into that. Paid for a sect-run school at my birth and everything.”

Sherlock’s look is thoughtful, but he seems content to let her continue. She does.

“The sect was at war with a splinter group who wanted to kill or enslave every non-believer. I was forced to kill for the first time when I was eleven, killed the enemy leader when I was seventeen. After that, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed John and ran.”

Sherlock frowns.

“They just let you go?”

Harry laughs softly.

“Nah. They wanted me to become a new figurehead, marry someone from the sect and raise a lot of good little believer kids. But I called in some favors, new identities, new life. Got close to being discovered some years ago when my new wife turned out to be one of them and found out who I was, but… we’ve managed.”

I can almost see things clicking into place in Sherlock’s head. He’s probably linking the story in with his own deductions, both today and before he met her, but his answer is most definitely not what I was expecting.

“John joined the army because he felt inadequate.”

Harry shrugs, and I suddenly want to throw unbaked bagels at both their heads.

“I saved his life from a killer the splinter group sent after him when we were sixteen. He was an idiot before that.”

They share a smile, and Sherlock nods.

“I think you might be exactly what Alexey needs.”

 

It doesn’t feel right to talk about the case here, not when we’re not alone in the bakery, so we keep working till noon, only interrupted by tea breaks every now and then. All the food around us seems to incite Sherlock’s appetite, and he actually eats what we place in front of him. Sherlock dons the cloak before Hettie’s son Adam relieves us at noon. We walk back to Harry’s place, Sherlock invisible for fear of anyone recognizing him, even in this guise. It would be all over the news by tonight, and there are too many who are paying close attention to anyone in my presence.

We settle down in the dining room, and I finally unroll all the paperwork we’ve brought with us. Sherlock explains some of the intricacies of the case to Harry, and I busy myself making tea. When I return, I hear Harry ask:

“So what are you planning to do about the boy?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“They’ll probably start looking for relatives for those whose mothers are dead. Put them into foster care if they don’t find any, either in the countries they’re in or back in their home countries. Easiest way would probably be to invent a relative and brief Alexey about the cover story before the police talks to him. He’s bright enough to go through with it.”

Harry nods thoughtfully.

“Where’s he from? What’s he like? John only said he acts like a Watson.”

Sherlock smiles at the word choice.

“Southwestern Russia, near the Ukrainian border. Bright, with the talent for languages children so often have and don’t get to train, and yes, very much like John. Like you, too, from what I saw today. Brave, loyal, protective, starting to develop the cynicism associated with bad experiences. Dark hair, so more believably a relative than if you’d have looked more like John.”

Harry smiles.

“Alright. So we modify our already fake family tree some more, that’s easy. Let’s see… So our mother had an affair with a Russian after John was born, he knew and so did his family. Makes Alexey’s mother my cousin, who’s sporadically been in contact. What’s her name?”

Sherlock grins at her.

“Oxana, so probably Ksyusha to her friends and family by Russian traditions, if you want to be realistic. So you and she talked about her and the child coming to live with you because things were bad for them down there, then they suddenly disappeared.”

Harry grins back.

“I tried to file a Missing Person’s, but the police said they’re not in charge of people disappearing in other countries, and couldn’t do anything unless I had evidence of a crime, which I didn’t. I’ve kept worrying ever since.”

“You’re good at this”, Sherlock says approvingly, and for a moment I get almost jealous. It should be me Sherlock’s collaborating with on a case, not my sister. But this is for the boy’s sake, and she’s very much a part of this now.

“That should be enough for now. I’ll brief Alexey before he is rescued – mother’s cousin Harriet Watson in London, who they were trying to reach when they were abducted. Anything else they’ll probably ask you, not him. He was too young on that trip, and too much has happened, since. Improvise.”

“Now we only have to finish that report”, I cut in. “And the accompanying blackmail letter to Mycroft.”

“I’ll have to mail it from Germany”, Sherlock scowls. “He’d notice a British post mark, even if I do hate the extra shipping time that will take.”

Harry grins widely.

“Use the cloak. Leave the report on his desk, hide it in a book or something, and watch him freak out at the security breach.”

Sherlock stares at her in wonder.

“Welcome on the team, Harriet Watson. I’m starting to be thankful you’re on our side.”


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock and I and on the bed on the bed snogging when there’s a knock on our new hotel room’s door. I jump of the bed, and pull the cloak over myself. Both of us are half undressed, and we cannot risk anything about my involvement in this entering a report. A strange man in Sherlock’s room just might arouse Mycroft’s suspicion.

Two days have passed since we left the dossier on Mycroft’s desk at the Diogenes club, hidden in one of the books Sherlock bought in Paris. Sherlock included a letter that he would not let me read, but from his wicked grin while writing it, I know that it Mycroft will probably be mad when he reads it. All that Sherlock told me is that he included a new cover name, one that meant we had to get a new room. We’ve used it as an excuse to rent a double room this time.

Both of us have been edgy ever since we got back, and for long stretches, kissing has been the only thing that kept us sane. We have not dared to leave the room even to inform Alexey of our plan, for fear of not being here when Interpol calls. Warning him will have to be part of whatever plan we make once we know what the police is going to do. Neither has Sherlock dared to take off the wig and beard of the French “businessman” and undercover agent he’s used here before, as he does not want the police to figure out his real identity.

Sherlock does not bother to dress before he opens the door, only briefly glancing into the mirror to check his hair pieces are still in place. He’s buttoning his shirt while he greets the man in front of him, who even I recognize as plainclothes police at first glance.

“Jacques Poirot?”, he enquires, and Sherlock nods.

“Oui, c’est moi.”

“English, please. Kriminalhauptkommissar Jakob Niedermayr, Interpol contact for the Bundespolizei in Munich. May I come in?“

Sherlock opens the door wider and waves towards the small table.

“Of course. Please sit. This is about the children?”

He is still adopting that heavy French accent he has used in this guise throughout. Niedermayr nods.

“Our colleagues in France contacted us and gave us your contact. There is a simultaneous raid on multiple suspected sites of human trafficking planned, and I was told we were not to go in without you.”

Sherlock nods, every inch the seasoned investigator.

“I have an informant who might be in danger during the raid. My orders are to guard him personally so he can testify. He has been of tremendous help in acquiring the necessary information.”

Niedermayr studies him thoughtfully.

“I understand you were the one who uncovered this ring?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Together with a few colleagues, yes. We stumbled across their branch in Lyon, then fanned out to see just how widely spread this network operated. I am the one who investigated the branch here.”  
Niedermayr hands him a business card.

“I would like you to join my team for a briefing tomorrow morning. This is the address for the department whose offices we are using here. Eight o’clock sharp. We would appreciate any additional information that might have not been in the files, but could potentially be of use, too.”

Sherlock nods solemly.

“I will be there and answer any questions your team might have after reading the files. Thank you for including me.”

I look at my watch. Roughly twelve more hours to drive Sherlock crazy waiting. This will be an interesting night.

 

Of course Sherlock does not sleep, and neither do I. He spends every minute going over every little detail of the case over and over again, and in the end, we’re at the police station almost forty minutes early. We seem not to be the only ones eager to solve this case, either. Niedermayr and one of his men are already in the conference room we are led to by a young uniformed officer, going over case details with large cups of coffee in hand. Niedermayr looks up as we enter and nods.

“Ah, Monsieur Poirot. So good of you to join us. This is my expert for computer work, Bernd Weißmüller. Bernd, this is Jacques Poirot, Interpol undercover agent from France.”

Weißmüller takes in Sherlock’s suit-wearing form and grins.

“That has got to be a cover name. Nice choice, too.”

Sherlock shrugs eloquently.

“It is the name your force and many others know me by. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Weißmüller. You’re the forensic IT specialist on this case?”

The way he botches the name has got to be on purpose.

Weißmüller shrugs.

“Something like that. I’m part of the taskforce going in. My specialty is securing any computers and parts during the raid to make sure no evidence is lost.”

Sherlock nods appreciatively.

“That does sound like a useful man to have on hand. I have two rooms to point you at, specifically, then. An office and a storage room in the basement. I will draw something of a map once the rest of the team is here.”

They do small talk and coffee for a while, Sherlock actually stooping to drink some himself. I settle into a corner to watch and wait as another dozen officers trickle in. Finally, when the last man has grabbed a chair, Niedermayr steps up to the front.

“Danke, dass ihr alle pünktlich wart. Ich gehe davon aus, dass ihr mittlerweile mit dem Vorbericht vertraut seid, worum es in diesem Fall geht.“ Most of the people in the room mutter some form of agreement. “Ich möchte euch unseren französischen Kollegen Jacques Poirot vorstellen. Seinem Team verdanken wir die Informationen in diesem Bericht. Er wird uns auf dieser Razzia begleiten.“  
[Thank you all for being on time. I assume you’re all familiar with the contents of the preliminary report. I want to introduce our French colleague Jacques Poirot. We owe his team the information in the report. He will accompany us on the raid.]

He gestures at Sherlock, who merely lifts a hand in greeting.

“Leider spricht Herr Poirot kein Deutsch, so dass wir in dieser Vorbesprechung zumeist auf Englisch zurückgreifen werden müssen. Gibt es jemanden, der dem nicht folgen kann?“  
[Unfortunately, Mr. Poirot does not speak German, so we’ll mostly have to stick to English in this briefing. Is there anyone who won’t be able to follow that?]

The others shake their heads, and Niedermayr gestures for Sherlock to join him. “Monsieur Poirot, if you would?”

Sherlock steps up, and I’m surprised at how much restraint he shows over the next hour, going into details and answering even the stupidest questions that might have provoked a scathing remark even from me. In short, he’s being the exact opposite of every time I’ve ever seen him deal with police forces before, and I can’t figure out whether that’s part of his cover identity or a sign of how desperately he wants everything to go right on this case.

“I would very much like to go in ahead of the rest of you”, he finally ends, and Niedermayr frowns.

“Why?”

“I went in undercover as a customer before, and got a lot of information from one of the children. A Russian boy named Alexey. I’m afraid the proprietors of this establishment might figure it out and try to kill him during the raid to eliminate an important witness. I would very much like to prevent that. He risked a lot to help us.”

Niedermayr sounds unconvinced.

“How do we know you’re not going in to warn them?”

Sherlock scowls.

“With all due respect, sir, without my information you wouldn’t even know this case exists.”

“Sending him in as a customer again might actually work in our favor”, a youngish woman cuts in.  
Niedermayr frowns.

“Wieso das, Heidi?”  
[how so, Heidi?]

She ignores his switch in language, probably because she wants Sherlock to understand.

„He might be right. If they hear us breaking down the door, the might try to shoot as many children as possible to eliminate witnesses, or try to get rid of evidence somehow. If Mr. Poirot can open the door for us…”

Sherlock stays still, watching them. It’s a good plan, too, and one that would enable him to brief Alexey on our other plan, especially if he leaves the door-opening to me. Niedermayr seems unconvinced, but more and more of his team argue in favor of it, and finally, he relents, on the condition of Sherlock not being armed so he won’t endanger any of the team if something goes wrong.

“I never go armed”, Sherlock responds with a haughtiness that’s more Jegor Sokolov than Jacques Poirot. “My job is getting intel and evidence, not shooting people.”

No, it isn’t, indeed. I’m the one with the gun.

 

Hours later, we are ready to go. Sherlock refused to be wired “in case they search me”, and I grinned at the thought. Armed and invisible, I follow him to the door of the establishment soon to be raided, knowing the police is watching. This is it.

We’re in luck, as the guard opening the door is one Sherlock encountered on his previous visit, and he lets him in almost wordlessly. Sherlock pays him up front, and the guard picks up Alexey from the day room and leads them up the stairs. I stay behind, opening the front door a mere inch wide as soon as the hallway is empty. Then I hurry to follow.

I barely make it into Alexey’s room before the guard closes the door. Sherlock sits down on the bed beside the boy, starting to talk quietly but rapidly in Russian, probably trying to explain our plans before the rescue team arrives. He looks to the door, and I make sure to stay in the camera’s blind spot before I take off the cloak and wave. Alexey stares at me, and Sherlock keeps talking rapidly.

“Es darf keiner wissen, dass ich hier bin”, I explain as soon as Sherlock shuts up for a second. “Ich passe auf Jacques auf wie du auf die anderen Kinder. Das geht besser, wenn mich keiner sieht.“  
[Nobody must know I’m here. I watch out for Jacques like you do for the other children. That works better when nobody sees me.]

Alexey smiles uncertainly and nods. Sherlock keeps running on his monologue, and I catch Harry’s name multiple times. A ruckus starts downstairs, and I can hear someone running in the hallway up here. Only barely do I manage to shrug the cloak back on and step out of the way before the guard from a few minutes barges in, brandishing a gun.

“Verdammter Verräter!” [Bloody traitor!], he bellows, and on instinct I step in front of Sherlock and the boy. I draw my own gun while making sure to block his line of aim. I’m not sure which one of them he’s aiming at, but I’d do this for either one. I did swear to shoot this guard on our previous visit, and I don’t even hesitate. We both fire at the same time, and Alexey screams.

Two policemen in full gear appear behind the guard as I fall to my knees, and I really hope the cloak is falling right to cover me completely as I try to roll out of the way in my fall.


	16. Chapter 16

We’re in an interrogation room, and Sherlock is handcuffed to the table with both hands. Niedermayr is shouting at him, and Sherlock is shouting back just as angrily, which is never a good sign. I’d have wished this to end on a different note, but once again, Sherlock has managed to antagonize a police force he was supposed to be working with.

“Tell me where you hid the gun!”, Niedermayr demands, not for the first time, and Sherlock scowls.

“I don’t have a gun! You’ve searched me yourself, both before and after the raid! You’ve searched the room! You knew I don’t use guns before this whole thing even started, I told you!”

“The ballistic report came back, Mr. Poirot, or whatever your name is. The bullet that hid the guard was not fired from his gun, but his gun was fired, and my team members all agree that they heard two shots. The projectile from the guard’s weapon is still missing. So tell me, Jacques - where is that second bullet? Where is the other gun?”

Both of them are in the room, hidden on my invisible person, but neither of them know that, even if Sherlock might suspect.

“I – don’t – know!” Sherlock screams. “I was as surprised as your people were when that guard keeled over! I thought they had shot him from behind! You checked my hands for gunshot residue! Both of your team members and the boy can testify my hands were empty and ungloved at the time!”

The female officer next to Niedermayr, who was not part of the raid but seems to be a high-ranking officer at this police station, puts a hand on Niedermayr’s arm. I suddenly regret that I never bothered to learn German police ranks and therefore cannot begin to guess how she ranks in comparison to him. She’s been quiet up till now, following the two men’s escalating fight.

“Er hat recht, und das weißt du. Sowohl unsere Heidi als auch dieser alte Kerl den du mitgebracht hast haben einstimmig bestätigt dass sie keine Waffe jeglicher Art auch nur in der Nähe dieses Mannes gesehen haben, als die Schüsse fielen. Und sie wären bereit gewesen, den Wächter zu erschießen, wenn er nicht vorher von der anderen Seite erschossen worden wäre.“  
[He’s right, and you know it. Both our Heidi and that old guy you brought with you agreed that they saw no weapon of any kind near this man when the shots fell. And they were ready to shot the guard if he hadn’t been shot from the other side already.]

Niedermayr scowls.

“Heidi ist keine zuverlässige Quelle. Es war ihr erster Einsatz dieser Art, und es war ihre verdammte Idee, diesen Idioten vorauszuschicken. Ich hätte es besser wissen müssen, als auf Anfänger zu hören.“  
[Heidi is not a reliable source. It was her first mission of this kind, and it was her bloody idea to send this idiot in first. I should have known better than to trust newbies.]

The woman looks ready to smack him.

“Heidrun Huber ist eine der vielversprechendsten Nachwuchskräfte, die wir hier seit vielen Jahren gesehen haben, und ihr Bericht deckt sich mit allen anderen Zeugenaussagen. Ich werde eine solche Verleumdung meiner Leute nicht dulden."  
[Heidrun Huber is one of the most promising junior officers we’ve had here in years, and her report matches every other witness statement. I will not allow that sort of defamation of my people.]

She rises, turning to Sherlock and unlocking his handcuffs. Her accent is heavy, obviously not as used to communication in other languages as Niedermayr is.

“You may go, Mr. Poirot. But please, do stay in town, in case anyone comes up with better questions to ask than this idiot.”

Sherlock nods.

“Of course. My superior officers shouldn’t have a new case for me for another week or so, and if anything comes up before then, I will contact you personally. Even afterwards, you will always be able to reach my through my superiors should any new information come up.”

One week is how long it will be until he needs to be in Amsterdam for that appointment he made, and I’m really hoping he’ll take that time to recuperate. He could need some rest, and I’d like to see how the whole Alexey thing turns out before we head into battle again.

“Thank you, Ms. Wagner”, Sherlock continues and accepts the proffered business card. “I do have a certain attachment to this case. I would dearly like to see it solved to the last detail. You have my number at the hotel, please do inform me if you find out anything new.”

 

As soon as we’re inside our hotel room, I throw the invisibility cloak into a corner and find Sherlock suddenly clinging to me tightly. He is shaking badly.

“Thank God you’re alive… I was afraid I had lost you for a while. I was so scared you were dead, even if there was no blood…”

I can feel tears running down my neck where Sherlock’s face is buried, and I wrap both arms around him tightly. Sherlock Holmes, crying, again. That’s really happening too often lately.

“He was going to shoot you, or Alexey, maybe even both. I couldn’t let that happen. You’re both family now.”

Sherlock lets go of me enough to look at my face.

“Bulletproof vest? I seem to have missed you putting that on. That’s why I was so uncertain.”

I smile at him.

“Bulletproof sweater, actually. I’ve been wearing them ever since the last time I got shot.”

He snorts.

“Another Watson family secret?”

I can’t help but tease him.

“Gee, Mr. Holmes, well deduced! One could almost think you’re a genius, maybe even a detective!”

He snuggles back up to me, not even taking note of my joke. Damn. This has really hit him hard.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Not so soon after getting you back, after finally telling you what I feel. I'm sorry, John. I guess I never realized just how hard my faked suicide would hit you. I only thought I had to keep you and the others save. I didn't realize it would be this hard.”

I turn his face back to mine, needing him to see how serious I am about what I say next.

“I know, and I understand. I do love you, Sherlock Holmes. I would have stepped in even had I known I would die. You’re that important to me, and the work needs you.”

He smiles softly.

“The work needs you, too. We’ve seen that again today. I guess you were right, this only works as a three-way relationship. No more secrets of that magnitude from now on, I promise.”

I pull him to the bed and under the blanket, curling up around him.

“How long did you plan to give detective-or-whatever Wagner until you disappear? I didn’t believe that nonsense about a week for a second.”

He grins at me proudly.

“Twenty-four hours. I want to be in London when Mycroft finds out there’s a Watson involved in this case.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is getting rather suspicious, but the combined protective streak of TWO Watsons does not make things easy.

It is indeed Mycroft Holmes who comes by Harry’s house two days later. Sherlock and I have been sharing my room in the attic there since we arrived, but he’s been very careful about not being seen through a window, wearing the cloak around most of the house. Mycroft is always watching, we’ve learned that for years.

The two of us are sitting in the dining room cutting up vegetables for dinner when the doorbell rings. Moments later, Harry calls out.

“John? Mycroft Holmes is here!”

Sherlock hastily dons the cloak again, and we catch up with Mycroft and Harry on their way to the living room. Harry gestures at the sitting area.

“Make yourself at home. Mind the cats.”

Mycroft frowns, then spots the black-and-white fur ball curled up in the chair. He sits down on the couch instead, and I take the seat next to him. A moment later, he jumps. Wordlessly, I reach under the couch, grabbing Remus by the front legs and pulling him out. The red tabby hisses at me.

“No attacking my guests, you menace. Save that game for the family.”

Another way in which Sherlock is family by now. He has been playing with Remus-under-the-couch for hours this morning, and the young tom loved it. To be honest, I think both of them did.

“Actually, John, I’m not here about you”, Mycroft clarifies. I pretend to startle. “Your sister’s name has come up in a file that landed on my desk this morning, and seeing the relation, I decided to visit both of you myself instead of leaving it to the usual authorities.”

I look at him worriedly, and it’s not even all pretend. Even if I’m pretty sure I know what brings him here, there’s always that off chance that it’s something related to our past instead.

“Is Harry in trouble?”, I ask, but Mycroft shakes his head.

“Just a strange coincidence that threw me. I will explain shortly.”

When Harry returns with the tea tray and throws Paddy off the chair to sit there herself, Mycroft bows forward and looks at her inquisitively.

“Might you by any chance have any relatives in Russia, Ms. Watson?”

Harry perks up immediately.

“Is this about Ksyusha? Have they finally found her? My little cousin Oxana, I mean?”

Mycroft looks at her gravely.

“The name Oxana Vasilyeva has come up in a file about a large Interpol case I received this morning. I’m afraid she has passed away a few years ago, but her son Alexey has given your name as his only remaining relative.”  
Harry gasps and claps a hand to her mouth in apparent shock.

“Oh no! Poor Ksyusha… What happened?”

Mycroft ‘s face shows not the slightest motion.

“Ms. Vasilyeva was one of the victims of a human trafficking ring Interpol uncovered this week. I really only took notice of her name before I passed on the file because it threw me that one of the star witnesses in such a case should be related to someone who worked on so many high-profile cases with my deceased brother. I’m sure you understand it is a strange coincidence.”

“Oxana isn’t related to me”, I cut in. “Our mother had an affair right after I was born, so Harry’s really only my half-sister, though we’ve never cared about that.”

Harry nods.

“Papa Grisha stayed in contact, and he introduced me to Ksyusha when she was a teen learning English. It helped her study to talk to someone more her own age, we’re only about ten years apart. Is Alexey okay?”

I want to congratulate her on her acting, but I bite back any foolish remark I might make. We really did pick the right person for this, and Sherlock’s been priming her on Russian language and culture all day yesterday and this morning. Mycroft nods briskly.

“The boy is in foster care with the other children he was found with until the authorities can reunite them with their families. He has been through rather a lot, but has not needed any intensive medical attention so far as I know. I believe he did play a major part in uncovering this network and will be called on as a witness despite his young age. Are you still in contact with your father, Ms. Watson? He would be considered a closer relative and probably the first choice of custodian for the boy.”

Harry shakes her head.

“He died about four years ago, back in his home town. I did not even make it to the funeral because John was in the hospital after getting shot, and I didn’t want to leave his side for that long when Ksyusha called. She wanted to come live with me after the funeral, because life as a single mother without any family is pretty hard in rural Russia, but I have not heard from her since. Is that when she was taken?”

“We believe she had paid human traffickers to get her and the boy to England, and they enslaved them instead.”

Harry gasps in shock again.

“Oh, my poor little Ksyusha… I knew I should have been more insistent when the police refused to file her as a missing person because she lived and disappeared outside Europe…”

I walk over and sit on the armrest of her chair, petting her head awkwardly. She hides her face in my chest, and I glare at Mycroft angrily.

“That sounds like a case Sherlock should have been working on, doesn’t it, Mycroft? Have you already replaced him that easily? Are you planning to betray that one to the next bad guy who asks, too?”

Mycroft is clearly taken aback by my sudden attack on his person. Good. That was exactly my intention – distract him from Harry.

“I have told you before that I am incredibly sorry about what my misjudgment made my brother go through”, he says stiffly. “I miss him just as much as you do, never doubt that. If I could take back my actions of so many years ago and prevent the death of my brother and everything that led up to it, I would.”

I glare at him even more, digging for all the anger I felt when I confronted him about this before. My voice turns to ice, sounding ruthless enough to rival even Mycroft himself.

“See to it that you don’t hurt those I consider family ever again. Bring my nephew here without even another scratch on him, or might be tempted to tell the world just what your role in your little brother’s fall really was. Wouldn’t your parents love to hear the truth about that?”

He stares at me for a long while, obviously not used to anyone but Sherlock talking to him that way. Finally, he nods briskly.

“Very well. I will do everything in my power to hasten the necessary procedures.”

“See to it that you do.”

He gets up, and I lead him back to the front door.

“Goodbye, John”, he says, but I don’t return the greeting. He sighs in defeat and walks to the car waiting for him.

As soon as I have closed the door, Sherlock pounces on me, snogging me against the wall forcefully. I comes unexpected, but not in any way undesired, and I press my body along the length of it, leaning into the kiss.

“How did I earn that one?”, I ask when he finally has to come up for air, and he brushes a strand of hair from his face nervously. “Please tell me so I can do it more often.”

He’s actually blushing now, and I can’t help but smile at him.

“Thank you for what you said to Mycroft. It means a lot to hear that, both what you said and what he answered.”

I kiss him again, trying to let him feel how much he means to me.

“He deserved it, and he knows it. And it’ll probably help convince him I have no clue you’re alive, no connection to that case you’re in Germany for. And if it helps Alexey get here even one day quicker and with less trouble, all the better.”

Sherlock actually growls at that, pressing me back against the wall again. The kiss grows more and more heated, and both of us are moaning into it by the time Harry clears her throat behind us. We hastily break apart, but Harry only laughs.

“Looks like someone is turned on by your evil streak, JD. Do take this to your bedroom, will you?”

I blush at the insinuation, but Sherlock just turns around to her, grinning.

“Thank you, too, Harriet Watson. That was great acting. I am glad I listened to John’s idea of asking you for this.”

She smiles.

“No problem. Like my brother, family’s always first for me, and I guess there’s four of us to this family now.”

I notice she’s not including Mycroft in that, and I can’t help but agree strongly. Sherlock gives her one of those wicked smiles I love so much.

“I do hope you’ll excuse half of them for a few hours now.”

With that, he pulls me down the hall and up the stairs, Harry’s bright laughter echoing behind us. I’m guessing that delay he asked for when we first started kissing is over now.


	18. Epilogue

Sherlock and I leave for Baker Street early in the morning, him still in invisible. Mrs. Hudson invites me to join her for morning tea, and I couldn’t refuse even if I wanted to. I only wish Sherlock could join us, too, but it’s too dangerous.

“When are you coming back, John?”, she asks after a while. “It is so dreadfully silent since you and Sherlock are gone.”

I smile, remembering just how much not silent Sherlock was and is always prone to make things, and how much Mrs. Hudson usually reacted to it.

“I miss him, too, Mrs. Hudson, and you as well. I will be coming back as soon as I can. But my sister has just received news some days ago that her cousin in Russia has died, and left a ten-year-old boy orphaned. I want to be there to help them when he gets here.”

“Oh, John! That poor boy!”, she exclaims, and once again proves how much she thinks of everyone else’s well-being first. “Help your sister for as long as she needs it, I will keep everything neat her for you.”  
I press her hand gently.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I will bring the boy to visit you when he’s adjusted to life in London a bit. I know how much you like spoiling your sister’s grandchildren, and I’m sure Alexey will love you just as much as Sherlock and I always have.”

She tears up, and I give her a warm smile before I continue.

“Do you think I could spend the day upstairs alone? I would like to go through Sherlock’s things for a while, see if there’s something in there Alexey might enjoy, but I fear someone might see the lights and come visit.”

“I will make sure nobody dares disturb you”, she says resolutely. “Don’t you worry about that. Take all the time you need. All this must have been so dreadful for you.”  
I nod.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That means a lot to me.”

Of course, I don’t actually search for anything. Sherlock and I have an appointment to keep in Amsterdam, and as soon as we’re through the door, Sherlock pulls me through the door of his room.

“I want to kiss you before you put on that ridiculous thing again”, he mutters, and I laugh softly.

“You have five minutes.”

 

An hour later, Djamil al Marad and the aging biker soon to be known as Werner Niedermayr walk into a small photographer’s shop in Amsterdam. Sherlock laughed out loud when I told him the name I had chosen some days ago. Neither of us will forget Kriminalhauptkommissar Jakob Niedermayr for a while, one of the most thorough officer’s we’ve met on this journey and the only one to get anywhere close to uncovering Sherlock’s secrets. The thought of him being related in any way to an identity like this one seems utterly ludicrous, which is exactly why I chose the name.

“My father needs new passport pictures”, Sherlock explains smoothly, and I glare at him. I’m only six years older than him, though it does look more like twenty the way we are currently dressed.

“In this outfit?”, the shopgirl asks doubtfully, and Sherlock gives her his most disarming smile.

“Believe it or not, it’s the nicest thing he owns.”

She stares with her mouth open, and I decide to play along, frowning at both of them.

“Of course it is the best! Your mother made this for me!”

The shopgirl apologizes, and soon, we’re proud owners of a set of passport pictures both in printed and digital form that highlight every last ridiculous detail of this character. They go nicely with the two sets of pictures we have already had taken of my other two new identities over the last days. We still have an hour to waste, and we spend it trawling Albert Cuyp market for things that might good additions to current and future identities for either of us, as well as small gifts for Harry and Alexey.

Eventually, I find a place to don the invisibility cloak again, and we got to meet an IT specialist already waiting for Djamil. Again, Sherlock has prepared the memory stick he gives him with a slow-acting, sleep-inducing contact poison, but this time, he does not have to guess how long it might take to work. I stay inside the flat invisibly when Sherlock leaves, and call him back in as soon as the man passes out two hours later. This time, we grab enough information for at least three more large cases, including the illegal arms trading one Sherlock already noticed when we last came here. It will probably become our next case.

We port back to Baker Street right from the IT specialist’s office, and I say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as soon as we’ve gotten rid of our camouflage. She does not need to know that the things in the bag I carry are not from upstairs, but were only bought today.

I have one more stop to make on our way home, one that Sherlock does not yet know about. I have asked Hettie to recommend a jeweler who does custom work some days ago while Sherlock and Harry were busy preparing for Alexey’s arrival, and I would love to hear Sherlock’s deductions when I pick up the small box today. As he’s still invisible, he does not get to make them out loud, nor yet get to know whether they were anywhere near the truth.

We’re down the street from Harry’s house when one of Mycroft’s cars passes by us. Even I can deduce what that means, and it makes me suddenly hurry up. I can feel Sherlock’s hand grabbing mine while I unlock the door, so he’s probably deduced the same – and we’re both right, too.

Harry and Alexey are in the living room, the curtains already closed to block outsiders from watching. Harry has been expecting us. Alexey squeals when he sees me, running over to hug me hard.

“Ich dachte, du wärest tot!”  
[I thought you were dead!]

I shake my head.

“So leicht sterbe ich nicht. Jemand muss doch auf Sherlock aufpassen, erinnerst du dich?“  
[I’m not dying that easily. Someone’s got to look after Sherlock, remember?]

The boy frowns.

“Sherlock? Du meinst Jacques?”  
[Sherlock? You mean Jacques?]

Sherlock finally takes off the cloak and says something in Russian, and Alexey rushes over to hug him instead, breaking into a monologue that sends Sherlock grinning. I turn to Harry, who watches uncertainly.

“I suddenly feel so inadequate”, she says softly. “Both of you have languages you can communicate with him in, and I… I basically dropped out of school at eleven, never got to learn a language, and the few words of Arabic I picked up at work are totally useless.”

I give her a warm smile and a hug.

“You and him will both learn, give it time. You’ll help him in other ways that we can’t.”

We watch our two boys discuss something animatedly, until finally, Alexey comes over to us.

“Sherlock sagt, Harry ist genauso deine Schwester wie sie meine Tante ist, und deswegen bist du jetzt mein Onkel. Und er auch, weil er dein Mann ist. Stimmt das?“  
[Sherlock says Harry is your sister the same way she’s my aunt, so you’re my uncle now. and he’s, too, because he’s your husband. Is that true?]

I smile. Nice to know that Sherlock thinks he and I are married, now.

“Genau. Und wir werden alle auf dich aufpassen, so wie wir auch auf uns gegenseitig aufpassen.”  
[Exactly. And we’ll all look after you the same way we look after each other.]

I pull the small jewelry box from my pocket and open it. Inside is a deformed bullet, now firmly attached to a golden chain. I place it around Alexey’s neck.

“Das ist die Kugel, die der böse Mann auf dich und Sherlock geschossen hat. Sie soll dich immer daran erinnern, dass wir alle eine Familie sind und auf dich aufpassen.“  
[This is the bullet the bad man shot at you and Sherlock. It’s to remind you that we’re all a family and will look after you.]

He hugs me again, then runs over to show Sherlock and explain. Harry looks at me questioningly, and I smile.

“I made a promise when I took the name Watson. I promised that I’ll always protect you, and I’m extending that now that there’s four of us. Just because the paperwork doesn’t match who we were originally, doesn’t mean we’re not family.”

We’re all Watsons now, in every way that counts, and I’ll protect this family to my last breath. I know they all feel the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this is it. As I mentioned in a previous note, I'm working on a sequel to this. It will be called "Taking care of idiots" and will be told from Harry's and Mycroft's perspective while they are doing exactly that - trying to keep up appearances and protect their families at the same time. And in Mycroft's case, also while trying to figure out just what exactly is wrong with the Watson family - because we all know he's not one to accept "strange coincidences" like the ones in this story, especially when he hasn't even yet figured out just how Sherlock or one of his co-conspirators managed to breach security at the Diogenes Club.   
> It might take some weeks or so for me to start posting that one (I do have novels to work on, and numerous shorter non-fanfic works currently brewing - wrote one near-future urban fantasy short story between finishing this and starting on the sequel, and will probably need to get some more out before I really start working on this again), but I'd be glad if some of you would join me for the ride!


End file.
